Locking Horns
by celinenaville
Summary: Pre-series. Sam is 17. The tension between father and son is escalating to an all-time high leading John and Sam to clash after a difficult hunt. A distressed Dean finds himself caught in the middle. *COMPLETED*
1. Chapter 1

John Winchester locked gazes with his youngest. He gave Sam a glare that even a year ago would have cowed him like a kicked dog. But now... now Sam just squared himself toward his father and set his jaw.

"You want to say that to me again, Sam?" John closed the gap between them like a lion circling his pride.

At seventeen, his youngest was now actually taller than his father, a bit thin, with considerably boyish features, but still all muscle beneath his Carhartt jacket. Sam's brown hair was disheveled and he had dirt smudged down one cheek and mud drying down one side of his jacket where he had taken a spill in the grass. Sam narrowed his eyes, met his father's gaze with a mute challenge. John watched the muscles in his jaw jump. Dean backed off a step, looking from one to the other, sensing the impending confrontation. His discomfort palpable.

"I said I'm done. This is my last hunt. Next time you and Dean and can go salt-and-burn whatever you want but it won't be with me."

"You'll do whatever I tell you to do." John's tone brooked no room for argument. "Now go grab the rest of the gear."

"I hurt my leg. Go get it yourself."

John raised a dark eyebrow. "I said go get the gear." He was giving Sam a way out, being generous.

"I'll get it, Dad." Dean volunteered.

John shot him a dark glare. "Dean, stay out of this. I asked your brother to do it."

Dean looked abashed. "Yes, sir."

John's hazel eyes tracked back to Sam. "Do you want to reconsider your words before this goes somewhere you don't want it to, kid?"

Sam didn't waiver. "No."

John blinked, genuinely taken aback by Sam's subordination. "What did you just tell me?"

This time there was the slightest flinch in Sam's expression but he steeled his resolve. "I said... no."

John caught his son across the face with a backhanded slap. A "bitch slap" as Dean would have described it. It wasn't hard, probably barely stung, but Sam's head rocked sideways with the unexpected blow and he seemed stunned for a moment. Out of his peripheral vision John saw Dean start to instinctively take a step forward before he halted himself. Sam's eyes welled with tears briefly. He pushed them back down and then indignant anger rose to the surface.

"I have never wanted to be part of these hunts, Dad! I got hurt today. Dean almost got killed... and why? Because you're obsessed with catching something we've been chasing for sixteen years! _My_ whole life. There is no point to this."

John grabbed Sam's collar and hauled him closer. "I am teaching you boys how to survive. I am giving you the skills no one taught me so that you are prepared when these things come for you."

Sam's brows knitted together. "Maybe they won't come for us if we don't go searching them out all the freaking time!"

"Maybe you should reconsider your tone before I kick your ass. I can still take you, Sam Winchester. I don't care how tall you've gotten." He gave Sam a small shake to emphasize this point. Sam dropped his gaze in submission. Finally. John released him and Sam took a step back. His youngest was stubborn. Sullen. Recalcitrant in a way that Dean never was. John felt at an impasse in getting through to him. He doggedly refused to learn any of the lessons John tried to drill into them. Whereas Dean... well Dean learned them almost too well.

"I want out." Sam said petulantly.

"There is no out, son."

"Yes there is! Normal people don't live this way."

Dean's eyes moved to both of their faces. John was aware of how distressed his eldest became when Sam and his father locked horns. Dean was the mediator. Or he tried to be. His torn loyalties made him bounce back and forth in an argument like a ping pong ball. Instinctively protecting the losing party. Sam seemed oblivious to this, but then again at 17, he would be. He only noticed when Dean tried to defend his father, taking Dean's gentle verbal support as a betrayal.

"We are not normal people."

Sam snorted. "No kidding." It seemed that there might be a lull in the conflict until Sam started again. "It doesn't have to be this way. We could be normal. _You_ choose to live this way. _You_ choose for me and Dean to be put in danger night after night. To have no friends, no stability. To jump schools every three weeks. _You_ chose is this, Dad, not me. "

Dean inhaled audibly. His eyes chased to evaluate John's expression. John stood stunned for a moment. His instincts warring. He wanted to be furious at Sam's impudence. Part of him was. But he also heard the pain behind the words. "Son," he said softly. He shook his head and ran a hand over the stubble on his face. "It can't be that way. I wish that it could but it can't. There's so much you don't know. Don't understand."

"Yeah," Sam snapped back. "Because you don't tell us! You don't tell us anything!"

John felt his anger rising again. "Mind your tone," he said warningly.

Sam, as was typical of him these days, ignored the warning. "We're just supposed to do everything you say like we're in the freaking military."

"Every order I give you two is for your protection. You need to trust my judgment so that I can keep you safe."

Sam turned away. "Oh yeah. You've done a freaking bang up job of that so far."

John was on Sam in the blink of an eye. He grabbed Sam's arm, twisted it behind is back in a wrist lock and slammed him against the wall.

"Dad!" Dean cried.

John placed his face close to his younger son's ear. "You wanna reconsider that statement?"

He watched the muscles in Sam's upper lip twitch. His son gritted his teeth and remained silent.

"Answer me." John put a slight bit of pressure on the hold and Sam hissed, his body rising onto it's toes of it's own accord.

Sam's voice was a low growl of pain and anger. "This is for my protection, huh?"

John instinctively tightened his grip. Sam let out a pained cry and squinted his eyes closed.

"Dad stop!" Dean's voice. He ignored it.

"You're unbelievable you know that? Unbelievable. I have no words." John leaned closer. "What do you I have to do to get through to you, Sam?"

"I don't know...maybe abuse me some more?" Sam's voice was tight. "That always works."

John's mouth gaped open. " _Really_ , Sam?" He let his grip slacken a little and felt Sam's body relax under him in response. John had to shut his eyes against the sudden swell of tears. No one could wound him with quite the ease of Sammy. "That's really what you think of me?"

Sam huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes to look at his father. "Do you even see the irony of this situation?" He said, cheek still pressed against the wall.

John paused. He did, suddenly. He released his grip and Sam turned around to face him, shaking his arm to get the feeling back.

John shook his head. "I don't know what to do with you, Sammy."

His youngster's gaze was fierce. "My name is _Sam_."

John let it slide, put his hands on his hips. "Everything I do is because I love you boys."

"Oh my god! Are you serious?"

"I'm trying to raise you to be able to protect yourself. To be strong. To be adaptable. To be independent." He paused, evaluated the young man before him. "Maybe I taught that one too well." Sam was still watching him with angry resolve. Dean was off to the side with such a look of pained agony that John felt tears prick the corners of his eyes again.

"There's a war out there Sammy. I want you two boys to be ready. You need to have discipline. You need to have morals. You need..."

"I need to be my own freaking person!"

John closed his eyes wearily. "You need to listen to your father." He said in measured tones.

"I am so out of here the minute I turn eighteen," Sam replied.

"Until then you are my child under my roof."

"What fucking roof?" Sam looked up at the cracked motel room ceiling.

John's hands found Sam's jacket in a flash and suddenly Dean was between them. "Dad! No!" He begged " _No._ " The green eyes were desperate, pleading. "Both of you." Dean stepped between them, prying John's hands off of Sam's collar. " _Stop._ Just stop."

He met John's gaze again. "Please, Dad. Sammy's hurt. He's not thinking straight."

"I'm thinking very clearly." Sam said behind him.

Dean whirled on him. "Shut up, Sam! _Why can't you ever just stop?_ " His green eyes filled with unshed tears. "Leave Dad alone. Just stop."

"Sure, take his side."

"I'm not taking anyone's side! But you need to quit. Now."

Sam averted his eyes and his brown bangs flopped down to cover his expression. John sometimes swore his son used his hair as a shield from the world. Sam limped over to the farthest bed and sat down on the edge, shoulders hunched, hands between his knees, avoiding John's gaze. He looked a child suddenly. He was in a way. On the unnameable cusp between the kid and the adult.

Dean walked over and crouched down in front of him. He placed a gentle hand on Sammy's knee and talked to him lowly. John couldn't hear the whispered conversation. He saw Dean's earnest expression, the kindness shining out of those handsome features. He was such a good man. Clever, obedient, resourceful, compassionate. John felt the stirrings of pride. Sammy shook his head in response to something Dean said and John saw a tear course down his cheek. He scrubbed it away with his sleeve.

He saw Dean smile brightly as he cracked a joke and heard Sam's answering huff. They leaned closer to each other. So close that their foreheads were almost touching. Dean, still crouching, rocked back on his heels, Sam leaning forward from his spot on the bed.

John smiled and turned away, his jaw trembling. He was to the door before he heard Dean call "Dad, where are you going?"

"Be back soon, son," he said, sure not to let the emotion through to his voice. John left the two alone to recover like he always did.

 **I was originally intending this to be a one-shot, but I think there may be more to the story.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

John Winchester hunched further down at the corner table of the shitty dive bar he'd found and peeled aimlessly at the label on his cheap domestic beer bottle. He ran a hand over his week's growth of stubble and realized he needed to shave soon.

Sam's wounded eyes flashed through his head again. So much hatred, so much repressed anger. So much _hurt._ He didn't understand why. Sam had had life so much easier than Dean. Dean was Dad's soldier. The responsible one. The one who bore the brunt of whatever life threw at them. With no complaint. Strong and solid and true.

But Sam. Sam troubled him. An unbreakable will. A mind too sharp for his own good- with the wheels always turning. Sam knew he was smart. He thought his smarts could outpace his father's experience. He questioned John's motives endlessly. "Why? How? What? When? Why. Why. Why."

"Because I said so" didn't shut him up. Sam wanted to anchor himself in one place, as if a stable routine might keep the monsters from coming instead of inviting them there.

 _"How about abuse me some more?"_ The words echoed again through John's head. It had gotten under his skin. Bothered him. He was hard on his boys, yes- undoubtedly. He had to be. _Had_ to be. But _abusive_? That Sammy even perceived it that way hurt him deeply. He thought of Mary and had to fight down sudden tears. Would she understand how he had to raise their boys? She wouldn't have wanted this life for them. _He_ didn't want this life for them. He didn't want this life for _himself. He didn't want life_. The thought twisted his gut.

John Winchester had died in that fire with his wife. The hunter that remained wasn't him. Not really. The _only_ thing that had kept him going through the subsequent precarious time were his boys. Sammy had been an endless burden of NEED in those first years of life. Like all babies were. It was a pain in the ass. But one that kept him functioning.

Dean. Dean had been his life saver. He had stepped into the role of mother to his little brother like he'd been born to do it. Comforting. Coddling. Feeding. And he stepped in to help John too in every way he could. Pulling himself into John's lap and hugging him after a hard hunt whispering assurances. His little 5-year old caretaker.

He'd done almost everything the same in raising his two boys. But Sam's nature was so utterly different from Dean's that John experienced completely different results. In another life, _Sam_ would have been the model son and Dean the handful. Serious, nose to the grindstone, academic, sensitive Sam. Honor student Sam. Talkative, amenable Sam. The perfect boy. And Dean. DEAN would be the wayward one. Cutting classes. Smart assed. Going through all the cheerleaders in school like they were socks. Drinking, carousing. He would have been a handful. But out in the field- all of Deans 'flaws' became strengths. All of that energy and cockiness and glibness directed perfectly into his hunting. And Sam's 'strengths' became liabilities. He was too careful. Too thoughtful. Too gentle.

John had to somehow deal with those liabilities. But things kept escalating between him and his youngest. Sam testing the boundaries, John redrawing the same line that had been there are all the kid's goddamn life. An awkward dance ensued between them- Sam hovering incessantly near that line: John silently warning ' _don't cross it._ ' Until his son invariably put a toe over it. Hell, today he'd put a whole _foot_ over it.

Telling John Winchester 'no' to his face? He felt mildly guilty for slapping Sammy, but damn if the kid didn't deserve it. The only thing it hurt was Sam's pride. And he had a lot of it. Winchester flaw, he mused.

Sam. Sam. Sam. What was he going to do with Sam? He absently twisted the wedding band around his finger. God he missed Mary. _Still._ Still her loss was a deep aching wound that never healed over. He tried to fill it with alcohol. With hunting. With his sons. Even with other women from time to time. It never worked.

Dean could get through to Sam, John mused suddenly. He always had in a way that John never could. There was a certain unspoken bond between them. They fought like cats and dogs sometimes but there was a love and respect in Sammy's eyes that he never had when he looked at his father. From the time when he was young, barely more than a toddler, if he was scared, his hand groped searchingly for Dean's. In distress, his high pitch child's voice was just as likely to cry out " _D'n_!" as it was 'Daddy!' His boyish head of soft brown hair was more likely to find the hollow of Dean's armpit and burrow into it. The thought gave John an unpleasant ache.

Lately though, on the cusp of manhood, he'd noticed that Sam seemed to direct his frustrations at his brother more and more. It wasn't with the same contempt that he directed at John, but it was a crack in their foundation. The slightest beginnings of a rift there. He hated to see it- for when he was gone- all the boys would have was each other. Why didn't Sam grasp that for all his intelligence?

Today the two of them touching forehead to forehead brought up so much pain in John's heart that he wanted to collapse under the weight of it. He'd had a glimpse into the private world of his boys. It was one of _them_ against the world. One he was not a part of and perhaps shouldn't be witness to. It felt so utterly _intimate_ , so private that he hadn't dared intrude.

He put his head down on the table and a female voice snapped him to attention. "Hey handsome, bar's about to close."

He looked up. It was the bartender. Attractive, smiling at him. "I'd let you sit here all night but I kind of want to go home."

John cleared his throat. Offered up his best smile. "No problem."

He saw her eyes dart to the wedding band on his left hand. She sat down across from him. "Troubles with the missus?"

He smiled sadly. It was the only kind of smile John Winchester had. He shook his head, leaned in conspiratorially. "My son."

"Ahhh. Teenager?"

"Yep."

"He'll grow out of it."

John laughed, revealing the dimples Sam had inherited from his father. "I'm not so sure."

"Why not?"

"Because at this rate he might not _survive_ his teens."

She smiled. "Go easy on him, Dad. They figure themselves out eventually."

 **Thanks for the feedback! Please review if you have the time! Love me some reviews...the way Dean loves pie. ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

Dean stood up from his crouching position on the floor. " 'Kay, bitch, let's see about that leg." He patted Sam's knee.

Sam wiped his dirty jacket sleeve across his cheek again, smearing mud down his jaw. Dean looked at him warmly. "Maybe you need a shower first, huh? You look like you slid into home plate on your face."

"I'll probably catch scabies in the freaking tub." Sam replied.

"Oh come on. We've been in worse dumps than this."

"Yeah, I try to block those out...Dean, you hungry?"

Sam was always hungry these days. Dean swore the kid ate for three ever since he'd hit his growth spurt. Spurt was an understatement. Growth _flood_ was more accurate. Sam had been small for his age until he'd hit his 14th birthday and then, suddenly, he'd shot up past his father and brother in a span of a few years.

"Let me see," Dean walked over to the banged up laminate dresser and rummaged through their gear. He pulled out a box of cereal with a cheerful flourish. "We got Lucky Charms!" He shook the box with false enthusiasm.

"We don't have any milk."

Dean pulled out a can of Budweiser. "Beer! We got Lucky Charms and beer!" He fixed on a smile that he knew would goad Sam, waited for the inevitable response.

Sam gave him a bitch face that would have turned Medusa to stone. "Lucky Charms and warm beer?"

"I don't know, Sammy." Dean set the cereal down on the dresser, feeling the weight of the day threatening to settle on his shoulders. "Dad probably would have taken us out to eat at the shitty diner down the street if you hadn't picked a fight with him."

" _I_ picked the fight?" Sam replied vehemently.

"Okay," Dean leveled a finger at him. " _Do not start with me_ , Sam, because I will kick your ass up and down this block and then back to Mississippi for good measure."

Sam shut his mouth but he looked amused. He never fell for Dean's bluff. "Well," he said. "There's the crappy diner down the street. You _could_ go get us something."

"Sam," Dean's voice was weary. "I got three bucks to my name and I am not hiking in the pouring rain to get you something. Be a man and eat your Lucky Charms."

Sam pointed to his threadbare backpack that lay on the floor. It had been red in a former life, now it's primary color seemed to be faded grime. "I got some left over lunch money. If we combine the two, we have eight dollars. That's plenty."

An uneasy suspicion crossed Dean's mind. He looked at his brother with scrutiny. "Why do you have left over lunch money? Don't you eat at school?"

"Well yeah, but Dad gives me enough for desert-so a few times a week I skip out on desert."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Sam shrugged. "Extra money comes in handy, no?"

Dean honestly couldn't argue with that logic. He looked at Sam's dirt smeared face and felt his reserves begin to break down. He sighed and walked over to the pack, lifted it to hand to Sam. Sam unzipped the front pocket. The zipper stuck a bit until he wiggled it open.

"Dude, do you use that thing for target practice? It looks like Hell."

Sam's brow furrowed in concentration as he fished into it with his hand. "It's just old. I've had it since second grade... Here." True to his estimation, he pulled out five dollars in singles and a few quarters. Their hands brushed briefly as Sam handed the money to Dean. Dean caught his younger brother's gaze. "Hey, get in the shower. I'll be back soon with whatever this buys."

Sam nodded and stood up. He limped painfully to the bathroom, hardly putting weight on his left leg. Dean had an unwelcome intruding image of him as an old hunter, moving the same way. It weighed on him. Sam didn't want any of this. He never had. He seemed so ill-suited to the task. He didn't adapt very easily to new people, new surroundings: it made him pissy and taciturn. Whereas Dean found he could make do with whatever was thrown his way with a happy-go-lucky attitude. Nothing to eat? Fine. Warm beer and Sour Patch Kids. Didn't know anyone? Well, over there's a hot girl. Chat her up. Missed school assignment? A chance to mouth off in the principle's office. Shooting practice? A chance to blow off steam and bond with Dad.

But Sam with his sober nature took all those things to heart. Nothing to eat? Go hungry. Didn't know anyone? Bury his nose in a book. Missed assignment? Have a panic induced meltdown. He didn't like his life, Dean knew. He didn't vocalize it often. It came out sideways in eye rolls, huffs, half-muttered statements. In the way he fought with their father. John and Sam Winchester had always been a powder keg, but in the last few years something had lit the fuse and Dean felt like he was watching the fire lick the cotton and consume it until the inevitable final black powder explosion. And then, well Dean hoped he wouldn't be standing too close to the god damned blast because it was going to be ugly.

Dean stepped out into the cold November drizzle and turned up the collar of his leather jacket. As he expected, John had taken the Impala. _WHY_? Didn't he have his own goddamn car? That left Dean with a lovely 10 PM half-mile stroll. He shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking. "Dammit, Sam," he cursed as the drizzle began to soak his shortly cropped hair. The Lucky Charm Beer was becoming more appealing each minute.

Something about the cool, depressing drizzle called up a memory of his brother he'd long forgotten. Thirteen year old Sammy clutching a ragged puppy in the cold Southern rain. His shaggy brown bangs plastered to his forehead, his sloping nose pink with cold...and his eyes-that same determined, unbreakable steel he'd shown their father an hour ago. The image made Dean feel melancholy and guilty for his part in the ordeal. _The damned dog._ He'd forgotten all about the dog.

* * *

Dean had known the moment Sam showed up at their rental with the ragged poodle/terrier/whatever-the-hell mix in his arms that Sam's heart was going to get him into trouble. As such, his first response was far from supportive. He raised an eyebrow as Sam shut the door behind himself. "Dude...what is _that?_ "

"A dog, duh."Sam replied, setting it down. "You thirsty, buddy?" He grabbed a bowl off the counter and filled it with water, placed it in front of the mutt. "Come on, buddy. Drink up." He waggled a finger in the water, swishing noisily. "Come on."

"What's it doing here?" Dean leaned against the counter, appraising his brother, Once he really looked, Sam seemed a little worse for wear. Disheveled, a red cheek, bloody knuckles. Sam didn't look at him. "I was walking home from school and some boys were taunting it."

Dean felt a warm glow of pride. "Did you kick their asses?"

Sam smirked, but didn't answer. That was all the confirmation Dean needed. _Atta boy,_ he thought. Out loud he said, "That's nice, Sam but you can't keep it here."

The dog finally decided the water wasn't going to kill it and began lapping. Sam smoothed a hand over its mop of unruly fur. "Was I supposed to just leave it there?"

"Yes. Or find the owners."

"Look at it, Dean. It doesn't _have_ owners."

Dean didn't want to admit it but Sam was probably right. Its fur was dirty, tangled and matted. He stepped forward and the dog skittered back, terror in its barely visible brown eyes.

"Thing's not even a dog. It's a rat with a pituitary problem."

"It's scared. People were throwing _rocks_ at it, Dean."

"If I looked like that people would probably throw rocks at me too." Sam's answering glare caught Dean off guard and made him feel ashamed for joking about it. "Look, Sam, it's not okay for people to hurt animals. I'd have kicked their asses too but we can't keep it. Dad has been over this with you."

"Dad's an asshole."

 _"Hey,"_ Dean's rebuke was a little sharper than he intended it to be. "Knock it off."

"Do we have any leftovers?" Sam changed the subject.

Dean thought about it. "Cold chicken. Is that okay to feed it?"

"Well, since it probably hasn't eaten anything that hasn't come out of a dumpster in months, I think so."

"It needs to be gone by the time Dad gets home." The phrase seemed to work like a summoning spell. No sooner had the words left his lips then the door opened and John walked in. Sammy froze on his spot on the floor.

John took in the scene. "What is that?" He asked in an almost perfect echo of what Dean had said earlier.

Sam's eyes flashed to Dean in a silent plea for help. Dean caught it. "Sam rescued it on the way home from school."

Dean watched his father's face appraising, measuring. John swung his bag of gear over his shoulder and walked to the other side of the living area. He was unusually quiet but Dean didn't sense any anger. His dad smelled like the outdoors and whiskey. John set the black bag down and crossed his arms and looked at Sam. "We can't keep it, Sam."

" _Dad!_ "

"We've been over this," he said firmly but not unkindly. "You always go back to begging for a dog. I said no. That's the end of the discussion."

"Dad-" Sam stood up. "We could find a way."

"Sam, we move constantly. Rentals don't allow dogs. Motels don't allow dogs."

"They don't allow fake IDs either. That never stops us."

John looked weary. His father always looked weary nowadays. Heroism weighed hard on him. "Look, I'm leaving overnight. I want the dog gone when I get back."

"Dad, what am I going to do with it? I can't let it loose again."

"No," his father said, considering. "That's no life for an animal. It goes to the pound in the morning."

Sam's eyes went wide like a rabbit in a snare. "Dad!" he cried. _"No!_ " His tone was so full of agony that the dog skittered away from him.

"Sam, you're not keeping the dog. Someone else can adopt it."

"No, they won't. We're in the South- they have the highest kill rate in the country. _Puppies_ barely make it out, an older dog, a scared dog... They'll gas it within a week! They don't have no kill rescues near here." His eyes welled with tears and Dean felt a tug on his heart. _Poor Sammy_.

Leave it to his nerd brother to know too much about animal shelters and their kill rates. Who the hell even _knew_ that?

John approached his youngest and set a hand on his shoulder. "Sam, our first priority is to rescue people, buddy. _That's_ the most important thing..."

Sam's lower lip trembled. "No. No it's not. _The dog never did anything wrong!"_

"Sammy," John's tone was still surprisingly patient in spite of Sam coming unglued. Dean hadn't seen him this upset in years.

"I want the dog gone by tomorrow evening. We're leaving for Pennsylvania at the end of the week. The animal needs to be gone."

Sam's look of betrayal was one that Dean never wanted to see again. In retrospect, he wondered if the rift between John and Sam had begun right there and then in that tiny apartment over the fate of a scared brown dog.

Sam scooped up the mutt and ran into his room. The door closed behind him.

John looked at Dean and shook his head. "Make sure it's gone, Dean."

Dean said what he always said. What he had no other option but to say, "Yes, sir."

John patted his shoulder. "Thank you, son. I'm here to shower and rest a bit, then I'm heading out. Make sure our stuff is packed up. I'm leaving the Impala with you. I'll be back home tomorrow evening."

"Yes, sir." That Dean could do: clear-cut instructions, final goal- all manageable. "You sure you don't need my help? I could come with you?"

At seventeen, Dean was rearing to throw himself into any and every hunt he could find. He fed off the adrenaline.

"No. I need you to look after Sammy and get things organized. Make sure he doesn't bring home a llama next time, okay?" John grinned lopsidedly.

Dean felt that familiar warmth suffuse him when he was alone with his dad. An affection, an appreciation for being his father's only confidant.

"Okay, Dad."

John pulled him into a quick hug and thumped him on the back. "Good man," he said. "Try to let Sam know where I'm coming from with the dog. He listens to you sometimes."

Dean snorted. "Emphasis on _sometimes_."

Later that night, Dean poked his head into Sam's room. He found his brother curled up on the bed, his arms encircling the little dog like it was a teddy bear. Somehow his brother had worked a lot of the knots out of its hair. There was a pile of fur on the ground next to him and a comb with broken teeth to attest to his self-appointed task.

"Hey, bitch, want some dinner?"

"No," came the despondent answer. The little dog looked at Dean and huddled further into the crook of Sam's neck.

"Wrong answer. Come on get up."

"M not hungry."

"Well, I bet your rat is, so get your ass out here and give it your leftovers."

That got Sam's attention. He stirred and lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Poor Sam. Always thinking with this heart. It was a big heart.

"Throw that comb out or you'll end up with fleas or mange or something. And take that thing out to go to the bathroom. Last thing we need is it pissing on the floor."

Sam smirked. "What's wrong...afraid of the competition?"

Dean shook his head with a smile. "Shut up, bitch."

Sam completed the ritual. "Jerk."


	4. Chapter 4

Dean shook the moisture off of his shortly cropped hair and hunched further into his leather jacket. It had been a hand me down from his father. Now at 22, it was a part of _him._ Like the amulet Sam had given him when they were kids, and his mother's ring he wore on his right hand. All pieces of Dean.

An image of Sam in the rain with the dog pushed through his mind again. Something about it _hurt_ Dean. Maybe because even after all these years it was still the essence of Sam. Stubborn and determined and angry and sad and compassionate and... _Sam_.

* * *

Dean had pulled into school to pick Sam up. Usually he walked home, but it was a crappy grey winter's day and he figured he should save his brother the trek home in the rain. Except Sam never showed. Never exited the building with his red backpack. It took only a few well placed inquiries to ascertain that Sam had never shown to school.

Dean's heart leapt. That was not like him at all. School was Sam's escape, his hiatus and sense of normalcy from the life they lived. _Where was he?_ Dean circled back to the rental. No Sam. No dog. He spent the better part of an hour cruising through nearby side streets until he saw his brother's form huddled in his red hooded sweatshirt leaving the porch of a suburban brick house.

He looked reminiscent of Elliott from _E.T. He's gonna need an alien to keep me from kicking his ass,_ Dean thought. _  
_

Reflexively, Dean swung the Impala up to the curb, throwing a splashing puddle in its wake. It was drizzling. The kind of cold, shitty drizzle that makes the whole world seem bleak. He threw the door open. "Sam _-my!_ "

Sam jerked his head up. "Dean."

Sam stopped on the sidewalk. He was clutching the shaggy brown dog to his chest, shielding the majority of its body within his half-zipped hoodie.

"Get in the god damn car! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

Sam tilted his chin up and stared Dean down. Resolute. "I can't, Dean."

He held the dog closer. It jerked its head up as Dean approached.

He felt a warring mixture of anger and relief flooding through him. He towered over his little brother. "I was worried sick. What the hell are you doing? Why weren't you in school?"

Sam stood mutely, the threads of his sweatshirt beaded with moisture. His bangs damp.

"I'm going door to door to see if anyone will take the dog."

Dean felt like someone had punched him. "What?"

"I left after you went out this morning and I've been knocking on doors in case somebody wants him."

"Aw, Sammy..." Dean paused, at a loss for words. He did a mental calculation of exactly how long his brother had been wandering the streets knocking on doors. Eight hours? Nine? Dean shook his head. "You heard Dad."

"I'm not taking him to the shelter." Sam tilted his chin defiantly. "I'm not. I didn't rescue him so I could throw him in some dog concentration camp to be gassed."

Dean looked at Sam. His arms were wrapped around the dog protectively, almost fiercely. His expression sure and unwavering, there was a glitter of defiance in his hazel-blue eyes and a deep abiding sorrow. This couldn't end well. It just couldn't. The rain picked up.

Dean squinted up. "Get in the car. We'll talk."

"Not if you're taking me back."

"I'm not taking you back. Get in the car."

Dean sat down and slammed the door shut. Sam joined him a moment later.

"Don't let your rat on the upholstery."

Sam nuzzled his little dog. "Hear that, Big Wig? Dean's a jerk. Stick with me."

Dean raised an eyebrow _"Big Wig?_ "

"He reminded me of a character from a book I read because of the mop of hair."

"I know that name... Wait... is that the gnarly cartoon rabbit with the bird? That cartoon was awesome."

He watched Sam's disapproving expression. "The book is better." His brother mumbled.

"Of course it is." Dean paused until the silence drove him crazy. "Look, we're delaying the inevitable here. I mean do you really think anyone is going to take it?"

Sam shrugged. "I..." he patted the dog's head. "There were a few people who are kind of interested. Only problem is Big Wig is so scared. He's not acting very adoptable."

Dean briefly pondered slamming his head repeatedly into the steering wheel. "We gotta take it in, Sam."

"No!" Sam's expression was utter terror. His lip trembled. " _Please_ , Dean." Sam's brows knit together and his eyes looked like they belonged in the face of a puppy, not a thirteen year old boy. "Please..." And suddenly Sam was weeping into the fur. The dog licked his tears.

Dean slammed his hand against the steering wheel. " _Goddamn it!_ Fine. Point me to a neighborhood you haven't tried yet and we can canvas there."

The next three hours were spent kicking hiking door to door like salesman. Dean almost had an interested party until he realized that the woman was far more interested in _him_ than the dog. At seventeen, Dean was coming into a sexual magnetism that baffled him on one hand and delighted him on another. He'd never had a problem with girls. Even in his awkward preteen stage, the force of his charm drew them, but suddenly at about sixteen grown women were beginning to eye him. Both the girls his age _and_ the mothers of the girls his age responded to his flirty charisma. He'd already had a "Mrs. Robinson" moment or two that he would never breathe a word of to his father.

Dean turned on as much of his charm as he could to help the dog, but it was a lost cause. Not only was Big Wig scared of people, he seemed to not be good with other dogs either. Anyone soft-hearted enough to be interested already had other pets. When they finally drove back to the apartment, Dean felt a surge of anxiety at what his dad's response would be.

Just then he wanted to be anybody but Dean Winchester.

Miraculously, John didn't explode when they walked in, looking like three hapless drowned rats. He gently asked Sam to go to his room. "I need to talk to your brother."

Dean swallowed hard. He felt the fear rise up in him. His father's abject calm when he'd been expecting an explosion was terrifying. But somehow John never really needed to be angry to get his point across to Dean. Dean felt every glance, rebuke, and weary look of disapproval as keenly as if John had slapped him. He always had. He didn't understand _why_ exactly. It just was. In fact, sometimes the disappointment was harder on him than a stinging slap. Being hit brought out Dean's fight mode and he could channel his anger into hating the injustice of his father's drunken tirade.

"I'm disappointed in you, son." John said softly.

There it was. Dean felt the disapproval like a blow. "Sorry, Dad."

"Why is the dog still here?"

"Sam and I were trying to find it a home..." Dean looked abashed. "I was really holding out hope that we could get someone to take it."

"You know, Dean," John leaned up against the linoleum counter. His wedding ring scraped against the chipped surface with a dull sound. "Sam is too young to understand so much of our work. I mean he can fool you... Lord knows he's smarter than both of us... but he doesn't get the big picture. He's too damn young." John's eyes were taking on that sad look again. It bothered Dean no matter how many times he'd seen it.

"But you're seventeen now. You _get_ this. We can't keep the dog, you know that. -And its not important in the scheme of things."

"It's important to Sam." Dean said before he could reign it back.

"You just proved my point. Do you see how you trying to look out for him backfired? I wanted the dog gone this morning before Sam could get more attached to it. Don't you think it's going to hurt even worse when we take the dog tomorrow? And worse still if it's two days after that?"

Dean dropped his gaze, feeling a wave of guilt.

John shook his head. "He thinks this is the end of the world, but it's not... not in the grand scale. He will think his first girlfriend is important too. How much does your first girlfriend mean to you now, Dean?"

5 foot 3 of long legs and blonde hair flashed through Dean's mind. "Not much. Except she was a fox."

"Were you disappointed when you had to leave her?"

"Yes."

"Not that big a deal a few years out, huh?" John scratched his dark hair. "Sam will be okay. But do the right thing tomorrow. Kids don't always know what's in their best interest. As adults we have to make those tough calls. Make it, son." John pushed off the counter and walked to Sam's door. "I need to have a talk with Sam."

There was no yelling. Just the pleading tones of Sam's small voice and his father's calm baritone.

A few hours later, after they were done Dean poked his head in to check on his brother. Sam was sitting against the wall with the dog in his lap. He looked up as Dean smiled. "Hey, kiddo."

Sam's look was oddly broken. "Hey." He went back to petting the tangle of brown fur. He looked very young, and yet something about him was changed. Broken, wounded. Dean wanted to make it better but he didn't know how. He hovered near the door, unsure of how to proceed. What to say. Words failed him as they often did, so instead he sank down next to Sam. Shoulders touching in solidarity. Dean picked absently at the seam of his jeans.

He took a few steadying breaths. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Sam replied. "I know you are." And with that, he knew Sammy had absolved him.

Sam leaned against his big brother's solid arm. "Thanks, Dean."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For trying."

"Do or do not."

"There is no try." Sam finished. They both snorted.

Dean leaned his chin on the top of his brother's head and snaked an arm around his shoulders. They sat in silence for a long time.

* * *

The dog whined softly beside Dean, pressing against the front seat of the Impala, shuddering miserably. Sam hadn't come with him. Refused to. And Dean knew in that moment that his father was wrong. This _was_ important. And not just in this moment, but in Sam's life. This moment, this act would have fault lines that stretched for miles and branched out into other cracks- and they would all trace back to this first blow. He didn't know _why_ exactly. He just felt it.

His hands were trembling on the wheel as he thought of options. Bobby. He could drive it to Bobby's house. The old drunk wouldn't be happy about it, but he was too big-hearted to abandon it either. He'd find it a home one way or another. He calculated the time it would take him if he drove all day and all night. No. Not possible.

He thought about picking a nice house and dropping it off in one of the fenced yards in hopes that the owners would keep it.

He thought of letting it loose again. That seemed cruel. He wasn't sure how the thing had even survived as long as it had. He'd worked himself into a panic by the time he arrived at the worn down shelter and cut the engine. He scooped up the reluctant dog and brought him inside.

Years later, Dean still remembered that impression of cages and cages of hopeless faces or wet noses pressed against wire fencing. The sound of a shrill, desperate cacophony of barks. The feeling that he was inside doggy prison. He filled out the intake form, the dog still tucked under one arm.

"What are the chances that it will be adopted?" He asked the older woman manning the desk hesitantly.

She sighed. "Not great. We have about a 70% euthanasia rate for dogs. For cats it's more like 90%. If he was a puppy, it would be better." She must have seen Dean's stricken expression. "He's small. That's a bonus... You sure you can't keep him, honey?"

Dean swallowed against the rising lump in his throat and shook his head, unable to trust his voice. _Dammit, Dad. Why can't Sam have his pet rat?_

"I can take him from here or you can take him back and drop him off yourself." She said.

Dean's voice was husky. "I'll do it."

The woman took Dean back to an empty kennel. "Okay, just put him in there for now." She left them.

Dean stood dumbly for a few minutes. He felt the dog shift unhappily in his arms. "Okay, Rat. You find the _first_ old lady that you see and you stare at her with those eyes and you cuddle her like you did Sam. _You hear me?_ Lick her hand and you love on her like there's no tomorrow. Don't be a shivering mess, okay?" Dean put it down and gently ruffled the mop of fur on it's head as it cowered near the back of the cage. He gave one last pat. "Bye, Big Wig."

He swung the door shut and locked it with a quick motion. He passed the front desk and stopped. He took out $40 and slapped it on the counter. "Will this buy it more time?" His voice sounded hoarse.

She softened. "I can try, honey."

 _"Try,"_ he said and shoved the bills toward her. He was off before he could hear her response. He slammed the door to the Impala and laid his head on Baby's steering wheel. A few tears coursed down his cheeks and then a sob. He couldn't tell as he sat there who he was crying for. He didn't know if it was for Sammy, for Big Wig, or himself.

* * *

Dean swallowed the damn lump in his throat as he walked. Blinking furiously. True to his default Dean Winchester coping mechanism, he'd put the memory aside, burying it deep down, throwing rocks over it and locking the damn door on it and hadn't thought of it until just now. Neither Sam nor he had ever spoken of it again. God damn that diner food had better be worth it.

 **Thanks to everyone kind enough to leave a review. This chapter hurt to write. I went door to door with a cat my sister rescued from a flea market once. Luckily, the cat had a happy ending and someone took her.**


	5. Chapter 5

Dean shook the rain off of his hair as he stepped inside. Sam had showered and was propped up against the headboard, injured leg stretched out before him, his nose buried in a book. He was wearing a clean t-shirt and a loose pair of gray sleep pants. He looked up as Dean slammed the door.

"Fucking weather." Dean took a sip of the quickly cooling coffee and tossed the bag of carry out containers at Sam. They landed on the bed with the sound of rattling plastic forks and Styrofoam.

Sam awkwardly leaned forward and fished out a turkey wrap, wincing at his leg.

Dean paused with the plastic coffee lid against his lips and raised an eyebrow. "We should take care of that."

"I'm hungry first." Sam protested.

Dean reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a bottle of ibuprofen. He winged it at his brother. "Take some."

Sam caught it one handed. "Am I supposed to dry swallow them?"

"Here." Dean handed him the half drunk coffee and plopped down on the opposite bed. He reached over and fished some fries out of the open bag on Sam's quilt. "If I catch pneumonia from this I'm punching you." He shrugged out of the damp leather coat, still chewing his fries.

Sam popped the ibuprofen and chased it down with coffee. There was silence.

Dean swallowed his fries, got up and grabbed a beer from the duffel on the dresser. "Want one?"He asked.

Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust. "It's warm. I'm not that desperate."

Dean shrugged and popped the tab. He took a swallow. "Remember that little dog you rescued outside North Carolina when you were, like, thirteen?"

Sam stopped and looked at Dean, the shock ill-concealed on his face. He had one hand on the Styrofoam container. His fingers stilled. "Big wig?" He let out that distinctive little exhale through his nose that he did when he was at a loss for words. Almost a huff. "Yeah. Of course I do."

Dean saw his brother look at him, rapt with attention. Expecting more to the conversation. When he offered nothing, the edge of Sam's mouth quirked up into the grimace/ almost smile he habitually used when he didn't find something humorous. His brother's face was a study in contradictions, Dean thought. At once showing every emotion he felt, and yet concealing what he thought. Always.

"Wh..What... Why?" Sam finally stuttered.

Dean continued his measuring gaze until he could feel Sam's discomfort. Then he dropped his eyes and took a swig of beer. He toyed with the aluminum tab with his thumb. The rapidity of Sam's answer told Dean all that he needed to know. All these years later and the dog was still not far from his thoughts. His emo little brother remembered every detail and probably took the memory out to torture himself with on dark days.

"Dean, _why_?"

Dean's eyes met his brother's again. He shrugged. "No reason. It just popped into my head tonight for some reason."

Sam opened the container and started on the turkey wrap Dean had gotten him. His gaze was turned inward.

Dean sat down on the bed again and took his own share of food.

"I'm surprised you remembered it," Sam ventured.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't too happy having to drop Benji off at the shelter. Not exactly a hero moment."

"I hated Dad for that."

"We didn't have too much of a choice."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Do _not_ defend him, Dean."

"Just telling it like it is, Sammy."

Sam sullenly picked at an onion. "Whatever."

"I walked a mile in the rain for that wrap, you better eat it or I will break your kneecaps."

Sam took a bite and chewed slowly .

 _Well,_ Dean thought to himself, _wrong time to bring up the dog. Way to go dipshit._ "Sam..."

"If you're going to tell me that Dad loves me even though he doesn't show it or he's looking out for my best interest, save your breath."

In fact, that was _exactly_ what Dean was going to tell him. Instead, he feigned being affronted. "You know, Zippy, maybe you should _listen_ instead of jumping to conclusions."

"I just don't want to hear you defend him. You always take his side."

Dean leveled a finger at his little brother. "Okay, see now you're pissing me off. I have gone to the mat with Dad for your ass so many times I've lost count. So don't you _dare_ pretend I always side with him."

Sam had the courtesy to look abashed. He fidgeted from his spot propped against the headboard and picked at a fry, eyes downcast. It was a courtesy he didn't offer his father anymore, but to Dean...to Dean he'd submit. "Sorry," he said sullenly.

"It's not a problem." Dean said, sinking his teeth into a burger. It wasn't bad. Not great- not horrible either. Probably a lot better than Lucky Charm Beer. They are in silence. Dean watched Sam wince as he shifted and realized he was still in pain from his fall. He felt his well-honed paternal instinct take over. The thing that had been drilled into his brain since he was young... _Take care of Sammy_. "Okay," he clapped his hands together and approached the bed. "Let's take care of that leg before it becomes a problem."

Sam shifted away slightly. "It's fine."

"Sam, give me your friggin leg. Be careful on the wet grass next time."

" _Excuse_ me, I was busy running from a fucking ghost. I'll make sure I watch my step next time." Sam rolled his eyes and let his head drop back onto the pillow. "My life is so fucked up."

"Oh, come on." Dean abandoned the idea of evaluating Sam's leg and stood looking down at his brother. "It's not so bad."

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Sam sat up. Tears stood in his eyes and he dashed them away.

Dean was baffled. God damn his brother's moods could turn on a dime. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Sam dipped his head so that his bangs covered his expression. He shrugged.

"Are you in pain? Does it hurt that bad?"

"Its not my leg, Dean."

"What's wrong then?"

"I don't know... it's all so messed up. I should be worrying about who I'm going to ask to the prom next year or getting my assignments in on time. Not whether one of us is going to be disemboweled by a Wendigo or whether Dad is going to be so drunk one night that he wraps the Impala around a tree."

"Hey," Dean sat on the edge of Sam's bed, his back to his brother. In close proximity, offering the support of being there physically, but giving him his space. "I wish I could get you to look at it like I do."

"How's that?" Dean could hear the tremble in his little brother's voice.

"Like an adventure. We get to save people. Look at the places we visit... the _freedom_ we have. Most kids your age have a curfew and rules and a bedtime. Come on, Sammy! We just do as we please. You and me. Go out to eat. Hustle pool. Sneak into concerts. It's kinda nice. If we were normal I'd have a soul crushing nine to five by now and you'd be grounded for looking up internet porn."

Sam snorted. "I would not... I'd be smart enough to cover my tracks."

Dean laughed. "That's my little delinquent."

"I don't, you know."

"Don't what?"

"Look up internet porn."

"Man, why do you have to ruin it? I was so proud of you."

He didn't have to look to know that Sam was grinning.

 **You've read this far...please give me a review! And thank you to all who have already given some feedback. Hugs!**


	6. Chapter 6

John opened the door to the motel room smelling of whiskey and heartbreak. Sam was sprawled out on the farthest bed, his back propped up on pillows. His lanky frame was already too long for most mattresses his father noticed suddenly. The flickering light from the television illuminated his face intermittently. He looked weary. He had changed into a tee shirt and a pair of boxers.

Dean was in the opposite bed. He lifted his head to look at his father. "Hey," he said congenially. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

"I'm surprised you boys are still up." John bolted the door. "It's late."

"Since when have you cared about our bedtime?" Sam asked under his breath. Dean shot him a warning glare.

John ignored him. He checked the windows. "Did you salt the sills?"

"Yes, sir," Dean replied. He got off the bed and pushed Sam aside as he laid down next to him. "Move over, bitch."

"Come on, Dean- there's a cot in the closet."

"I'm not sleeping on that shitty thing and wrecking my back."

"I'm too tall. I hang off of it."

John sat on the edge of the bed that Dean had just vacated. He noticed his eldest appraising him. No doubt to gauge how drunk he was. John's gaze moved to an open jar of linament on the bedside table. "Sam, how is the leg?"

"It's fine."

"Did you take care of it?"

"Yes, sir."

John looked to Dean to clarify.

"I think he pulled a hamstring when he slipped on the grass. I gave him some ibuprofen, slapped some ice on it, rubbed on some Icy Hot. He'll live... unfortunately."

"Jerk."

Dean's mouth curved into a half smile and he looked at Sam askance through his long dark lashes. "Bitch."

"Sam," John said trying to catch Sam's eye. "I think we both owe each other an apology." He saw Sam stiffen. He looked away. "I'm sorry I had to punish you, son. I don't like to do it."

Sam said nothing.

"I know you don't understand right now but I'm trying to protect you, kid. Acknowledge me when I'm speaking to you."

Sam hesitated. "Yes, sir."

"I didn't fly off the handle for no reason."

Sam bit his lip, dropping his gaze again. It was clear from his body language that he didn't agree.

 _Why, why did he test him like this?_ "You provoked this, son. I need you to acknowledge your part. When I give you an order-"

"-I follow it." Sam finished in a measured tone. John saw his jaw clench.

"You may not love me all the time, son, but you _will_ respect me."

"Yes, sir." The tone was sullen. It may as well have been _fuck you_. Probably was in Sam's mind. John was too tired to care. He could tell that Sam was more than ready to go at it again. Already. The kid just never learned. "I'm sorry I was so hard on you, Sam."

Sam didn't respond.

"Sam?" John cocked an eyebrow.

Sam finally brought his eyes up to meet his father's. There was still smoldering anger in them. "Yeah," he said flatly. "It's okay. Doesn't matter. I'm fine."

Sam _never_ forgot and he _never_ forgave, John reflected. So opposite Dean. Dean was willing to cast aside any wrong if his father apologized. Clean slate, open heart, new beginning. Sometimes John appreciated his easy going nature so much.

For his part, Dean was sprawled next to Sam's side on their bed, trying to act like he was staying out of the exchange. John closed his eyes wearily. "Well," he said turning off the TV with the remote. "Good night, boys."

"Night Dad," Dean said back. Sam said nothing.

John fell back onto the bed without even removing his boots.

 **Short chapter this time...fear not, my friends. More will be on the way. Bobby seemed to want to join the party. He'll be along shortly, because who am I to say no to Bobby?  
**

 **Please review! It makes the Muse happy. She's mean when she isn't happy.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Here we go. Bobby is drawn into this mess now. Poor Bobby. As always Thank you so much to everyone who takes the time to review. Especially my regular reviewers/readers. You know who you are. Much love to you all!**

"They are _not_ your boys, Bobby!"

Bobby Singer gritted his teeth and took a step closer to John, fists clenched at his sides. They both had the smell of alcohol on their breath, Bobby was acutely aware of it as he stood toe to toe with the patriarch of the Winchester clan.

"Damn right they aren't. 'Cause I wouldn't treat my sons the way you treat yours! I wouldn't treat my _dog_ that way." Bobby gestured at the old Rottweiler chained by the car.

"Watch it," John said dangerously.

"I've been watching you and Sam go at it like a couple of rams in season for two weeks. You are driving Sam away and you haven't got the common sense to see it. He ain't a hunter, John. He ain't cut out for it. He's trying to tell you in every way he knows how but you won't listen, you idjit. ...And Dean...Dean is caught smack dab in the middle between you two stubborn asses."

John was watching him with a strange expression in his eye and Bobby could see the vein pop out on the side of his neck. "They're _my_ boys, Bobby! You are _not_ their father. You aren't even a parent. You have no clue."

Something about that hurt Bobby on a deep level. He didn't show it. "Don't take a parent to see what effect you're having on them, John. Just takes someone who ain't got his head up his ass."

John swung at him. Bobby was ready and he sidestepped the blow, exhaling hard through his nostrils. "So what? You're gonna knock me on my ass now 'cause you don't like what I'm telling you?"

Surprisingly, John backed off a step. Bobby was genuinely angry now. He could feel the heat rising in him. The defensive, righteous anger for the boys. The distinctly paternal protectiveness he felt for them. John Winchester had the best boys Bobby had ever known and he was hurting them. Like he always unknowingly had.

For years, Bobby had cut him some slack knowing that John's sins were not on purpose. -That he had a point about raising them to defend themselves. To be independent. To be strong. But he was breaking his youngest under the strain. Sam was like a rogue stallion waiting to challenge the alpha of the herd and Dean... poor Dean- always the mediator. Always the middleman. Torn loyalties tearing him up inside.

Bobby ran a hand over his unkempt beard, glaring daggers at his friend. Blue eyes awash with pain and anger. "So I'm supposed to raise these boys for weeks at a time since Sam's barely out of kindergarten- feed them, teach them, take them places-and I don't get to have an _opinion_ on what happens to them 'cause I ain't there daddy? Cause I gotta say that deal looks pretty damn unfair from where I'm standin'."

John softened slightly. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does." He said quietly. "You gotta trust me that I know what's best for my boys, Bobby. Sam needs to respect me. I need to back you to back me up on this... Please."

Bobby felt his temper start to cool a little. "Yeah, well..." he left the rest unfinished, didn't say what he was thinking: _Yeah well they're the only reason I've gotten out of bed some days. The thing I love most in the world. What's given me the most laughs. The people I think about the most. The reason I keep your friggin' ass around._ Instead he said, "Sam's a stubborn ass just like his Daddy."

John smiled, his teeth startlingly white against his scruffy salt and pepper growth of beard. It was easy to see where the boys had gotten their looks on the rare occasions that John didn't look like a scowling poster board for PTSD. "That he is."

Bobby turned to the house. "I'm done standing in this friggin' sun." He frowned underneath the brim of his beat up baseball cap. They'd resolved nothing really. There was so much he wanted to say that he knew would be ill-received. So much he had to choke down and shut up about if he wanted to be able to help the kids at all. It would probably come out someday at the worst possible moment. Bobby knew as surely as he knew there would be a point where Sam and John's fights would culminate in some irreparable falling out-which is to say, _definitely_ \- that he and John Winchester would have a show down. He knew both of their tempers.

When it happened, it was going to be one hell of a storm and the boys would be caught right in the eye of it. It wasn't fair what they so often found themselves in the center of, burdens too big for grown men thrown right into their laps from the time they were in grade school. John put those burdens on them and it pissed Bobby off to no end.

Sam wasn't going to be okay at this rate and if Sam wasn't okay, Dean wouldn't be okay either. Common friggin' sense. The stubborn old jackass was going to lose both his boys to the memory of a wife who'd been gone so long Sam didn't even have a memory of her. He, himself, _knew_ the pain of losing his wife to a demon. _Knew_ it. Understood the drive in John- but goddamn if Bobby would understand why he'd want to throw his own kids under the bus for revenge. What would that accomplish? Just more wreckage, more pain, more suffering to feed the bastard that had already destroyed the Winchester's lives.

Fucking stubborn, short-sighted John. Why were all his friends that way? Assholes, the lot of them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Okay, here we go. Putting in some Sam and Bobby one-on-one because we need this. Love reviews! They keep me writing.  
**

Bobby loved both the boys. He'd die for either one of them without thought - but Dean. There was something about Dean that broke his damn heart. He thought maybe it was because the kid tried so hard to please - _shattered_ himself to try to do what was expected of him with no complaints ever. Sam you could only push so far before he balked and put up a fight like a recalcitrant mule. But _Dean_ -Dean you could abuse. Sam had self-respect. Dean had self-flagellation. Dean was Bobby's favorite, though he'd never admit it out loud. He had a hard time admitting it to himself even- because that made Bobby feel sorry for Sam.

Sam just never fit in with any of them. Not with John. Not with Bobby, and not even with Dean - but, of course, Dean loved him fiercely. Sam wasn't meant to be a hunter. He had potential to be a good one, no doubt, but that was because John took qualities in Sam and warped them to suit his purpose. But if Sam were able to choose his own path he'd never be a hunter. Not in a million years. Bobby thought of that when he saw Sam's lanky form sitting quietly at the kitchen table. Alone. Contemplating what? The chips in the Formica?

He came in quietly and sat across from him. "Hey kid." He said gently.

Sam looked up - all soft eyes, mussed hair, boyish features. He looked like one of those posters teenage girls hung on their bedroom walls.

"You okay, Sam?"

Sam snorted, dropped his gaze. "Yeah."

Bobby leaned his elbow on the table and cocked his head. "See? That was completely convincing. Great piece of acting there."

That earned a shy flash of teeth in an almost smile. "I try. Figured I should go into theater."

"Your Daddy got something he wants you to be doing besides sitting at the table?"

The openness on Sam's face disappeared. "Always."

"Best do it, son. John doesn't like it when you don't listen to him."

"I hadn't noticed." The kid's tone was bitter. -Quiet like he'd been chewing on that thought for a long time.

"Why are you pushing his buttons, boy? You wanna see how many you can touch before he explodes?"

Sam looked shocked and a little hurt. "No."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Nothing. I'm just letting him know when he's wrong."

The passionate earnesty made Bobby groan inwardly. "Boy," Bobby kneaded his fingers into the bridge of his nose to counteract a sudden headache. "Just do what he says. He's a pain in the ass but he's still your old man. Show him respect."

"Why?" Sam leaned forward and his voice dropped low. "What is there to respect about him?"

Bobby felt a flash of annoyance. "When your mother died he didn't dump your asses at social services- that's what."

"Oh, maybe he should get a medal, Bobby."

Bobby felt a flash of annoyance. "Sam, dammit!" Bobby slapped his hand hard against the table and he saw the teenager jump back a little in shock, eyes wide. "This shit is getting old! Suck it up! You've done nothing but fight with your old man for two weeks and I'm getting sick of it."

Sam looked hurt. Profoundly and irrevocably hurt, like Bobby had somehow betrayed him. No matter what happened with his father, he had never seen Sam look at John this way. _Balls._ Sam was too damn complex and emotional. _This_ was why Dean was his favorite. He didn't need a _What-Was-Dean-Feeling-at-This- Minute Map._

Sam dropped his gaze and went silent _._ He was feeling hurt and reprimanded, apparently. And betrayed. Oh, don't forget betrayed. _Pain in the ass. Pick a friggin' emotion and stay there._

"I'm on your side, Sam." He soothed. Should he be admitting this to him? Would he exploit the knowledge? Bobby looked at Sam's guileless face. Nah. Not in the kid's nature. "But you gotta stop rocking the boat. You're gonna tip it and your Daddy's gonna beat your ass with the oar."

Sam snorted and the side of his mouth curled up in amusement. He scratched his finger over the table top, tracing the grooves with his thumbnail. "I'm not _trying_ to be difficult, Bobby. He's just so _wrong_ about so many things and _Dean_ keeps siding with him."

Bobby heard a note of bitterness in his tone and didn't like it. Not one bit. "You leave your _brother_ out of this. It's not his fault you and your dad can't eat breakfast together without starting a war. _You got that?"_

Sam bit his lip. "Yes sir."

"Balls. Don't sir me, boy."

"Okay, Uncle Bobby."

"There, that's better." Bobby reached across the table and touched Sam's cheek- was vaguely surprised to feel stubble on his jaw. _Man. He's a young man_ _now._ "Your Daddy loves you even though he has a screwed up way of showing it. And Dean- that's your best ally in this freaking _world_ , Sam. You remember that."

He gently boxed Sam's ear as he punctuated his point.

"Bobby," Sam's eyes were suddenly very sad. His boyish face broke into something that looked so much older than his age. _God, it wasn't fair._ A kid like Sam shouldn't even _have_ that expression in his friggin' repertoire.

"I just don't know what to do. I don't want to grow up to be like my dad. I don't want that life for myself."

Bobby felt his heart break. "I don't want that for you either, Sam."


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry I've been a little late in updating. For some reason, ever since I switched to Bobby's POV my reviews have dropped off sharply. I'm not sure if that means I've lost my readership or if people just aren't inclined to comment. I'm hoping people are still reading but fear not, I WILL finish the tale either way. Gotta deal with one more Bobby chapter, then I promise it's back to John. Thanks to SimoneGreyStar for the info on the SATs because I was as lost as Bobby is on that one.**

John Winchester pushed the pedal to the floor of his 1986 GMC Sierra Grande. It surged ahead, bumping gamely over the shitty terrain. He'd left the boys with Bobby, knowing they'd be safe there for however long it took him to follow up this lead on the demon. Not just any demon. _The_ Demon. The one who burned their lives to ashes. He'd gone radio silent. Turned off his cell. Cut off communication. Disappeared.

The last thing he needed was whatever it was to trace his calls back to Bobby Singer's place and his boys. They be safe there. Bobby was a paranoid old bastard, but the paranoia had served him well over the years. He'd left Dean a quickly scribbled note. _Following a lead. Stay with Bobby. Back soon. Take care of Sammy._

The image of his oldest as he had last seen him, sleeping peacefully on his stomach in Bobby's guestroom chased across John's mind. Sam's face played through his head in quick succession. His unhappy wayward son. If what John had been piecing together was true, if the Yellow-Eyed Demon had been after Sam- not Mary- then his youngest teetered on the precipice of something very dangerous. Very dark. He'd need to keep a tight leash on him. One Sam would undoubtedly balk at, pull against and sink his teeth into.

John shook his head, face tight with worry. Even if the Winchesters were through with the supernatural, the supernatural was _not_ through with them. He knew it as certainly as he knew his own name. There was no fleeing this. There was only the option of driving into it head on.

* * *

Bobby watched Dean out of the corner of his eye. The young man was worried. Antsy. Chafing at the bit. John had been gone without further word for a long time now.

Too long.

There was no way to trace him. No way to reach him. Days stretched into weeks. Weeks to a month and Bobby begin to fear the worst, though he didn't vocalize it to the boys. He knew they thought it too. He tried to be kind and understanding. Patient and caring. All the shit that didn't come easy to him.

He sent Dean out to work on cars. The boy needed something to keep his mind busy before Bobby slapped him senseless. His nervous energy was annoying as hell. Sam was taciturn and withdrawn, nose in a book or school work. What was he going to do with them if John didn't come back?

Dean was an adult and Sam a hair's breadth from being one. It wouldn't be so bad to have them under his roof indefinitely, although he was under no illusion that either of them would want to stick around and work at the salvage yard in the middle of nowhere with an old drunk that couldn't afford to pay them anyway. Yeah, _no_ that wasn't going to work. _John,_ he thought, _you'd better be dead._

It wasn't out of character for John to disappear for weeks at a time but he always called to check in. He always asked Bobby's permission to keep the boys there. He'd never taken Bobby's hospitality for granted.

"Dean, quit pacing before I break your legs!"

The young man stopped his circuit around the kitchen. He looked guilty.

"Sorry, Bobby."

"Stop apologizin.' ...God, kid, you're driving me nuts."

"Sor-" he caught himself and shrugged with a sheepish grin.

Bobby closed the gap between them and clasped the back of Dean's neck. He pulled him closer. He saw Dean wince at the smell of alcohol on his breath. "Calm down."

A look of vulnerability flashed in Dean's eyes. "But what if something happened to him, Bobby?" His voice was not as steady as it should have been.

Bobby tightened his grip, his lip curled emphatically. "Then we'll deal with it. Right now you got to get your shit together. I'm watching you fall apart."

Dean moved his hand up to clasp Bobby's arm. A shiver ran through his frame, Bobby felt it. Dean was a ball of nerves. "I'm going crazy here. I can't sit like this... I can't just _wait._ "

"Stop being an ass. You got a little brother that looks up to you. How's he going to feel watching you go to pieces?"

Dean took a step back, breaking eye contact. "I don't think he cares."

"Of course he cares, you idjit. He's just got a different way of showing it."

Dean quieted and dropped his gaze, shrugged. "I just want Dad back," he said in a small voice.

Bobby patted him on the shoulder. "Go finish the project I gave you."

Bobby watched Dean struggle for control. A cascade of micro-expressions played across his face, and for a brief moment, Bobby thought that maybe Sam wasn't the emotional one. That was a horrible thought. Maybe Dean just covered it better.

He'd always known that there were layers of sensitivity hidden under Dean's exterior. The smart ass remarks. The jests. The reckless behavior, all meant to throw anyone off the trail. It was a defense mechanism to survive the _John Winchester School of Life._ Bobby hated to see it. Not that he hated the sensitivity, it made Dean _Dean,_ but it was an Achilles heel in their line of work. A large one- like going in and playing wounded. It _drew_ trouble to you. It was like the supernatural could perceive the chinks in a person's armor and aim its blows precisely there.

Dean being Dean was like throwing chum into the water and waiting to see what it would draw.

 _Balls._ They were both that way. Him and Sam. _Why the fuck were they in 'The Life?' Oh yeah, jackass put them there. Good job, John._

Bobby's lip drew into an appraising scowl. "You just ain't alright, are you?"

Dean turned to walk to the fridge. "Need a beer," he said.

 _Oh good. Alcoholism 101. Well on his way to being a hunter now._

"Sam told me he's applying to colleges." Dean said lightly with a half amused smirk.

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Dean used his silver ring to pull the cap off of the bottle and took a swig. "Yeah."

Bobby shrugged. "Best thing for him, seems like."

"What?" Dean snorted. "Guess he'll excel at Latin and dead languages."

"Your brother is smarter than the rest of us idjits put together. It's wasted on digging graves and burning bones, Dean."

Dean looked affronted. "Bobby, we _save_ people. How is that wasting anything?"

Bobby shrugged."There are other ways of saving people that don't involve getting your brains bashed in every other week."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Maybe he could be a doctor and examine your freaking head."

Dean took the jibe good-naturedly. He broke out into a quick easy smile- all white teeth and mischief. "Bobby," he took another pull of beer. "You're awesome."

"Boy," Bobby shook his head. "I don't know what to think about you some days."

"I don't think Dad's going to go for the whole college thing."

"Well, I'm almost eighteen, so pretty soon it won't matter _what_ Dad thinks," Sam said from the doorway.

They both looked up in surprise. His tall form stepped into the kitchen.

Bobby looked at Dean. "Sam's got a point."

"College costs money, dipshit." Dean said to his younger counterpart.

"There are things called scholarships, Dean." Sam snarked back. "You know, for people who actually paid attention in class."

"Oh," Dean squared his shoulders and stepped forward. "I am so going to kick your ass."

Bobby got in between them. "Knock it off, you two!" He cuffed Dean in the side of the head. "Quit going at your brother when who you're really mad at is your Daddy."

Sam opened his mouth to say something and Bobby glanced at him. "Sam, I will hurt you."

It was an empty threat. He knew it. The boys knew it. But Sam respected him enough to shut his mouth all the same.

"You two are something else."

Both the boys were studying the ground when Sam said, "I do have a very real shot at several scholarships to really good schools."

Bobby wasn't sure what to say. He didn't want Sam in this life. He wouldn't wish it on anyone. "...That's good, Sam."

Sam looked up. "I got a 1540 on my SATs, Bobby." He said, brightly.

Bobby frowned. "That good?"

Sam snorted looked to Dean, who was wearing an equally perplexed expression. He snorted again and shook his head. Bobby saw the pride evaporate off his face. "Never mind."

The resignation of the words gave Bobby a glimpse into how alone Sam really felt.


	10. Chapter 10

**Special thanks to Alex Hamato who offered a TON of advice and support... with this chapter especially. Her insight is fantastic. Go check out her fic for some Castiel awesomeness. I was super reluctant to finish this chapter. Reviews are awesome, guys. If I've moved you or pissed you off, let me know. ;) Thank you. And here we go:  
**

 _ **Dean:** Well, yeah, but last time we saw you, I mean, you did threaten to blast him full of buckshot. Cocked the shotgun and everything._

 _ **Bobby:** Yeah, well, what can I say? John just has that effect on people._

 _ **Dean:** Yeah, I guess he does._  
 ** _– Bobby Singer and Dean Winchester discussing John, 1.22 Devil's Trap_**

* * *

It was a few weeks later that the roar of John's black GMC split the silence outside Singer's Salvage. Bobby looked up. "I'll be damned."

He opened the curtain and glanced outside. There he was- John Winchester. Scruffy and a bit unkempt but decidedly, wholly alive. Bobby was going to kill him.

He started to step onto the porch and was nearly run over by Dean as he shouldered past, jogged across the yard, and quite literally, threw himself into his father's embrace. John wrapped his arms around his son and closed his eyes.

Bobby saw the exchange of emotion between the two. Saw the way John's expression twisted painfully as Dean leaned his head into his father's. In the way John's grip tightened around the young man's broad shoulders.

Bobby took another step out onto the porch.

" _Dad.._." he heard Dean's voice breaking. A half- repressed sob.

"I'm here, son. I'm here." John said gruffly.

Bobby felt his gut clench at Dean's pain. _Thank God. Thank God he was back._

John opened his eyes and locked gazes with Bobby over his son's shoulder. One last squeeze to Dean, and he straightened up and squared his shoulders with an apologetic grin. "Hey, Bobby."

Bobby crossed his arms. He saw a very real flash of fear in Dean's eyes as he ascertained the older man's mood.

Bobby clenched his jaw. "You had better tell me you brought _Jesus Christ_ back to earth while you were away."

John laughed.

"I ain't joking." Bobby snarled.

"Dad?" Sam's broken, disbelieving voice beside him. Bobby turned to look at Sam.

"Hey, son." John said, watching him warily. Sam didn't run to him. He stayed glued to the spot. Bobby felt the roil of emotion from beside him. Sam was _pissed._ Pissed didn't cut it, he thought belatedly. This was _rage_. This was righteous anger. This was: _how_ dare _you do this to me? To_ us. This was him saying: _you have crossed the line._

John had crossed Bobby's line. He knew it as surely as he stood there. That brewing storm he felt the last time they talked was going to break. Today. Now. This was the first roll of thunder. No telling how long before the lightning followed.

John moved toward them with loose confident strides, maintaining steady eye contact with both of them. Telegraphing that he was not ashamed. Not intimidated. He mounted the steps and stopped in front of Bobby. "Thanks for taking care of my boys."

"You didn't give me much choice did you?"

John's gaze moved to Sam. "Hi, kid."

"Where were you?" Sam's tone was accusatory. Bobby saw his respiration quicken.

"Following a trail for a hunt."

"Hunt? You left us with no word for almost two months for a hunt?" Sam looked stricken.

"I left a note."

"You said _'be back soon.'_ We thought you were dead, Dad!" Sam's voice caught.

"I'm not." John reached for his youngest, attempting to envelop him in a hug.

Sam broke away, almost recoiling from his father. Bobby could see Sam's trembling from where he was. It seemed like the kid could barely keep his feet.

"Don't touch me." His voice was controlled.

"Sammy..."

"No!" Sam stepped back. His eyes were brimming. "Don't 'Sammy' me either!"

John bit his lip, glanced to Bobby, then back to his son. "Okay, enough of the dramatics."

"I'm _mad_ at you, Dad!" Sam's voice had dropped a register into something that didn't quite fit a teenager.

John sighed, rolled his eyes. Bobby could feel his embarrassment at his younger child's disobedience. So _this_ the bastard was embarrassed by? Not disappearing without a trace for two months and leaving them all to twist in the wind, but Sam raising his voice to him in front of his colleague? _Balls._ There was no fixing this.

"Dean, go pack your stuff. I'm going to talk with your brother."

Dean looked a little surprised but answered with a "yes, sir."

"Leaving without stopping in for a visit?" Bobby asked mildly.

John looked at him. "Sorry, Bobby. I gotta talk with Sam here."

Sam swallowed as his father stepped closer. "You need to lower your voice and I don't like your tone."

Bobby didn't care to be caught in the middle of the confrontation and would have followed Dean inside, but some protective urge kept him on the porch. Hunter's instinct. Still, he took a step back to give them space.

Sam's face twisted in pain. "You can't do this to us."

"Are you giving me an order?" John could be an intimidating bastard when he wanted to.

Sam hesitated. "No."

"Good... because that's what it sounded like."

"This isn't what people do who care about each other."

"Oh, you mean like when you ran away and disappeared for two weeks and your brother thought you were dead?"

"I was twelve." Sam protested, not without a hint of guilt.

"The world does not revolve around you, Sam. People's lives take priority over me sitting around to hold your hand."

"Giving us a call to let us know you're not dead ain't exactly hand holding." Bobby said under his breath.

"Stay out of this, Singer."

Bobby glared at him. "Or what?"

"This is between me and my boy. Sam," John grabbed Sam's shirt collar and started to push him toward the door. "Go help your brother pack."

"No it ain't. You made it between you and me the minute you dumped your kids here."

"I had my reasons, Bobby." John replied.

"Like what?" Sam asked, still not moving.

" _You_ ," John barked, whirling to face his youngest. "I've had enough of your tone."

Sam's jaw clenched. Bobby saw the anger rise in him. The mulish stubbornness that wanted to kick out at the person tugging on his lead. This wasn't going to be good, he thought. "Sam... go inside," Bobby warned, he hoped in a patient voice. He saw a Sam's eyes dart to his own. Saw the trapped look. The betrayal. _I'm not taking his side. I'm trying to help you, you idjit!_

"Bobby," John warned. Bobby shouldered past John and rather gently took Sam's arm. "Come on, boy."

Sam followed him inside the swinging screened door.

"Go get your stuff. Listen to your daddy." He released Sam's arm.

Sam stopped and looked at him, a number of emotions chased across his features. "This is it, isn't it?" His voice was small. His eyes welled with tears.

Bobby couldn't quite choke down his impatience. "This is what, Sam?"

"The part where we leave and don't come back?"

"Sam," John let the screen swing shut behind him with a creak of abused springs. "Upstairs. Now."

Sam looked to Bobby and then turned away. The kid was too perceptive.

"Don't you ever do that to me again," Bobby growled at the Winchester patriarch.

John raised a dark eyebrow. "I had to."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you that yet."

"Yet?"

"I'm sorry, Bobby."

"Don't give me that crap. You dump your boys here, you can tell me where you've been."

"I didn't know they were such a burden."

"Don't go twisting my words around."

John snorted. "If I were in the mood for melodrama, I'd go talk to Sam."

"Melodrama?" Bobby spat. His eyes were shadowed beneath his beat up trucker's cap. "Did it ever occur to you that Sam was _worried_ about you, huh? Dean was near having a breakdown. _I_ thought you were dead." His lip twisted into a sneer. "You're one selfish son of a bitch, you know that?"

"I was keeping you safe. I'm on the trail of something big, Bobby."

"Well maybe you can share it with the class and we can put our heads together to figure it out."

John shook his head and damn if he didn't look the picture of innocent regret. "I can't put you in danger."

"You put _me_ in danger? I'm the one who taught _you_ how to hunt, you idjit! You think maybe _I_ can determine if it's too big for me?"

John put his hands on his hips. The powder keg was there. The fuse was lit. Bobby could feel it eating down the wick. "I work alone, you know that."

"Except when you need me to research something for you. Or find lore on a topic or babysit your kids."

"You know, Bobby, Babysit isn't the word. They're hardly toddlers. If they were that much of a problem, you could have turned them out. Dean's an adult."

"No. I couldn't have."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I ain't you! I ain't going to screw with their heads and dump them when they don't know which end's up."

John had been fairly apathetic to the whole conversation but Bobby saw the anger flare in his eye. "Careful," he growled.

"You know what, John? There's a reason why you can't help but fall out with every god damn hunter from here to New York."

"I take it you're going to fill me in on the reason."

"Because you're an asshole, that's why. You don't give a crap about anyone else's feelings or opinions."

"I'm not in the business for hand holding or feelings, Singer. I'm in the business of saving lives."

Bobby glanced in the direction of the stairs. "At the expense of ruinin' a couple, huh?"

The fuse was gone, the spark disappearing into the keg. Sam, with his usual timing, stepped right into it. He walked to the edge of the stairs with Dean. No doubt alerted by the raised voices. Bobby wasn't sure if he'd grabbed John's collar first or vice versa.

The boys' reactions were instant. Dean shouted "Hey!" and dove between them to break it up. "Dad! Bobby!"

Some part of Bobby's mind registered how ridiculous it was that the friggin' _boys_ were actually breaking up a fight between the adults.

He started to step back. John shook Dean's grip off of him. "Grab your shit. We're leaving," He said, glaring daggers at Bobby.

"Damn it, Dad!" Sam shouted, his face contorted in pain. "You have to ruin everything for us! Uncle Bobby too?" His voice caught. John turned on him, his frustration finding a new target. "Shut up and get in the goddamn truck, we're leaving."

"But I always ride with Dean-"

John slapped him upside the back of the head. Probably harder than he intended. Sam brought up his arm to block the next blow and John grabbed him by the shoulder and flung him toward the door. "Now!"

Sam tripped over his own long legs and fell sprawling onto the old wooden boards. John reached down and grabbed him by his shirt collar. "Get up!" He tried to haul him to his feet, Sam's body a dead weight as he tried to scrabble up, his boots impotently trying to find a purchase on the floor. Sam broke into sobs. _"Dad!_ "

Something inside Bobby Singer snapped. This old house had heard these pleas before. They tainted the walls and sunk into the floor boards, and were settled into the antique furniture. Old, half-remembered pain buried here like a ghostly echo. Never again.

Bobby had crossed the room and had the old 12-guage shotgun in his hands before he knew what he was doing. Dean hadn't even had time to intervene before he caught sight of Bobby and froze. "Get your hands off of him, John."

John let Sam go and stood up slowly. "You've got to be kidding me."

Bobby cocked it, the sound loud in the sudden tense silence. "Try me."

Sam sat up slowly, tears streaming down his cheeks. He had quieted, but his face was lit with a painful eloquence. Bobby tried not to let it affect him. "Touch that boy again on my property and I'll fill your ass with buckshot."

John looked to Dean. "You boys get out of here."

Dean swallowed and nodded. He put his arm around Sam's shoulders. Sam turned into him with another small sob. Dean scooped up their duffles with the other hand. He locked gazes with Bobby. Those kid's eyes could break any heart. Except maybe his father's.

"Bye Bobby," Dean said, his voice steady.

"Bye, Dean. Sam." He acknowledge them with a small nod of his head, then turned back to John. "Out."

John shook his head and left quietly, though Bobby could feel him seething. Bobby watched him get into his truck. Sam and Dean were in the Impala. _Balls,_ he was going to miss those boys. John too if he could admit it to himself.

John pulled out in a flurry of spinning tires and gravel. Dean followed in the Impala. The last thing he saw was Sam's face glancing back at him out of the window... looking small and alone and lost. Bobby swallowed the lump in his throat, propped his Winchester against the wall (threatening a Winchester with a Winchester, there had to be some irony in that) and went to pour himself a glass of whiskey.

And that was life, wasn't it? Things you love taken away from you in the span of a few moments. And never in quite the way you'd expect. Words come out of your mouth you never thought you'd say. Ultimatums you never wanted to set. Balls. What else was he supposed to do? Let John manhandle his teenager and do nothing? Stand around... afraid to raise his voice, the way is mother had done to him? No. Bobby Singer didn't work that way.

John wasn't going to _beat_ his son no matter how angry he was- Bobby knew the man better than that- but an old fashioned _Come-to-Jesus Slapdown?_ Hell yes. Bobby wasn't going to stand to witness that. Not here. Not for anyone. No one was entitled to lay that trauma back at his feet. That was a line you didn't cross.

He swallowed the amber liquid and felt the burn down his throat. Everything else in his life was destroyed- might as well add his liver to that equation. _Ultimatums. Losing what you love...Life..._ That was simply how it went. Same tune, different words. Like a folk song that had undergone changes in lyrics every few years or so until the verses seem different, but the chorus is the same. He was sick of that fucking chorus.

Yep, that was just how it went. Bobby didn't have to like it though. He downed another measure of whiskey. If he'd known that he was never going to see John Winchester alive again, he'd have drunk more.


	11. Chapter 11

**I'm updating a little quicker than usual. This chapter just came together really easily. Thank you so much for the great reviews last chapter. I was really intimidated to take such a seminal moment on. SimoneGreyStar, imbloodycrowley, nightreader22, sh91767, WastedJamie...and the rest of you, thanks for the great feedback. As always Alex Hamato has been a great help.**

Dean's knuckles were white on the steering wheel as he followed his father's truck away from Singer's Salvage. His mind was racing to catch up with what had transpired. Had Bobby really pointed a loaded firearm at Dad? Cocked and loaded. He knew that John Winchester had a habit of burning bridges but this was more like blowing up the fucking bridge and dancing in the flames. _Fuck. What had happened?_ Bobby had been in their lives since he had been in elementary school. An ally to turn to whenever one was needed. Just always there. Like reruns of M*A*S*H.*

After several minutes, he glanced sideways at Sam. His brother's eyes were red, tears were still streaming down his cheeks. "Hey... come on there, Sam. Calm down... No one died." He said lightly.

Sam slumped his head against the car window. "We're never going to see him again." His voice was broken.

"Don't be stupid. Of course we will. He's pissed at Dad-not us."

Sam snorted. "The sins of the father are the sins of the sons."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "What?"

"You didn't learn anything from Pastor Jim, did you?"

"No," Dean let a mischievous grin spread across his face. "But I learned a little from the girls in the choir."

His ploy worked. Sam's cheeks reddened and he shook his head with a small laugh. When he tucked his chin, the red welt where he'd been hit peeked out from under his shaggy hair. Dean caught it from the corner of his eye. "Sammy," he said soberly. "You gotta stop with Dad."

"I didn't do anything!"

"Hey, calm down. Listen to me. _Stop._ Suck it up. Before you open your mouth to him... just suck it up. _Please._ "

Sam didn't respond. Dean felt Sam's eyes boring holes in the side his skull, studying him for several minutes. "Sam..."

"Huh?"

"Stop being creepy, dude. I'm trying to drive here. _Distracting._ "

Sam's gaze drifted up to the back of his father's truck. They drove on in silence for a long time, Dean attempting to keep up with John and feeling slightly stressed. "Jesus, he's going fast."

"You're the best, Dean." It was so out of the blue, Dean looked at his brother and swerved the car slightly.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "No need to kill us because of it."

"That was just kinda..." Dean paused, glanced at Sammy. "...random."

"No, really, sometimes you just are."

Dean took his foot off of the accelerator a moment before pressing it down harder. "Sometimes?" He asked, finding his feet. "I think you mean always."

Sam smiled and gave his trademark huff through his nose that denoted so many things. Humor. Disapproval. Confusion. In this situation it was definitely amusement.

"You just... you always..." Sam seemed at a loss for words. "It just... it... always comes back down to me and you... you know?"

Dean hated to admit it, but it did. "Yeah," he said.

"So, yeah... You should know that."

That was the most inarticulate speech Dean had ever heard Sam give. He appreciated the sentiment of it but it unsettled him. "What's with the confessional? You dyin' or something?"

"Not planning on it...I just wanted you to know...'cause...just 'cause."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Sam shrugged. "Nothing. I just wanted to say it now when we have the time. I mean I could be gone tomorrow. Who knows?"

Something about Sam's words felt ominous. Like Sam knew something he didn't. An anxiety rose in him that he didn't quite understand. If he weren't driving hell bent for leather to keep up with Dad he would have pulled over.

"You know something I don't?"

He caught a flash of Sam's dimples. "I read. I know a lot of things you don't."

"Except what a real live girl looks like."

"Or real life STD's."

"Cute, Sam." Dean exhaled through his nose. "Dad's trying to give me a coronary. I know he's pissed, but come on. These back roads are really twisty... Highway. Oh, thank God."

"I kind of always thought I was meant to die before you, you know."

"Okay, Marilyn Manson. _Morbid._ " Why would Sam even be contemplating shit like that? Seventeen and he already had his impending death mapped out? " _..._ Jesus, man, why would you even think that?" Dean couldn't conceal his expression of horror.

"You're upset."

"Damn right I'm upset. Why would you even SAY that?"

"I didn't mean to upset you, Dean, it's just... I don't know, how I'd always pictured it." Sam paused and there was a gravity to his words. "Like I was meant to go out first... I always picture it outside with you by my side somehow...that's just always seemed like the natural order of things."

"No its not, so shut the fuck up, Sammy! Don't ever tell me shit like that! God! That doesn't even make sense. I'm older. I do a shit ton more crazy reckless stuff than you do. If someone's dying first it's _me_ in a drunken car crash with a stripper and a bag of weed."

"What if I was meant to die in that fire?"

"You weren't and God help me if you say another thing like that I'm gonna pull the Impala over and beat your ass! I'm not joking. It's been a bad enough day, okay. Bobby's mad at us. Dad's mad at us."

"Me. Dad's mad at me." Sam said simply.

"Maybe it's because you're a little shit to him all the time... I don't need this crap right now. We should be happy he's alive and here we are..." he pressed the accelerator, "racing down the interstate to God knows where talking about how you're gonna die young. _Like what the hell?"_ Dean felt trapped. "It's like you and Dad both dump this shit on me all the time. 'Got something super fucked up and creepy that's bothering us? Want to bitch about each other? I know! Let's dump it on Dean. Like what the hell, man?" Dean's eyes took on an expression of worry that seemed out of place.

"That's because we both love you best, Dean..." Sam stared down at his hands. "What does Dad say about me?"

Dean glared at him. "You know how I don't tell him what you say about him?"

"Yeah."

"Well let's extend him the same courtesy." The truck's break lights came on and Dean was able to slow fractionally. His heart was hammering. _Fucking family._

"How am I supposed to know what bothers him and change it if I don't know?"

"You wouldn't. Trust me."

"How do you know that, Dean?"

Sam's petulance made Dean shake his head. "Because I know you."

"Dean-"

" _Hey!_ I said no. NO. I'm not gonna repeat stuff to you that's just gonna hurt your feelings." Dean said the words with all the infallible authority of 'big brother.' "There's no point. It doesn't even mean anything. We all need to vent once in a while."

"Who do you vent to?" Sam asked the question as if it had just occurred to him.

"Well, it used to be Bobby, but I guess from here on out it's gonna be a bottle of Jack."

"I'm here."

Something about that statement helped Dean calm a little. He could feel his heart slow to a hard THUMP...THUMP. Dean softened. "I know you are, Sam. And Dad loves you."

"Yeah." The tone was unconvinced.

"He does."

"I can't help but think maybe sometimes he blames me for mom."

 _Really?_ The shit that went on in Sam's head freaked him out sometimes. "That doesn't even make sense."

"If she hadn't been in my nursery..."

Dean reached across the seat and smacked his leg hard. "Knock it off! I told you I was gonna smack you if you keep this up."

"You know that's something you and Dad don't understand. Just because you can hit harder than me doesn't make you right."

Sam had taken him from anxious to frustrated to mad in the space of a minute. It was a special talent only he possessed. "I'm gonna dump your ass on the side of the highway."

Sam rubbed his thigh and nodded. "Do what you gotta do, Dean."

Dean exhaled sharply. "I'm not gonna dump your ass on the side of highway."

"I know...that's why you're the best."

Dean suddenly wanted to cry.


	12. Chapter 12

**As promised...back to John! Thanks to Alex Hamato for the brainstorming influence on a few parts of this one! And Jenny for listening to me talk about this waaaayy to much. I love reviews guys! Drop me a line!**

John Winchester took his foot off the gas when he realized he was going 20 miles over the speed limit and Dean and the Impala were struggling to keep up with him. He was livid. Beyond angry, and some part of him recognized that he needed to calm down. His fingers were stiff as he wrenched them from the steering wheel. His jaw and shoulders felt locked and he rolled them.

 _Singer. Fucking Singer._ Of all the hunters in all the states in all his life- he liked Bobby best. Solid, Dependable, down-to-earth Bobby. And he'd just napalmed their friendship. Over what? Giving his _own_ son a smack upside the head? A _well-deserved_ smack upside the head. Sam had been begging for a beat down for months. Bobby, himself, was not beyond giving the kids an occasional cuff-he'd seen him do it. Of course if he were being honest with himself this had been much harder than a cuff. Or even a normal slap. It had all the pent up frustration and fear John had been dealing with the past few months behind it.

He rolled his eyes heavenward for a fraction of a second and felt the familiar sting of tears. "What am I supposed to do with your son, Mary? _Our_ son?"

He inhaled through his nose, bringing himself back to center. Sam's voice played through his head. _"Dad!"_ It had been a plea-if he were a few years younger it would have been a terrified _"Daddy!_ " instead in that same tone. _'Don't hurt me. Protect me. I'm scared.'_ He knew the connotation and the weight behind the cry. He knew Sam was begging for amnesty. He couldn't give it. Could _not._ The stakes were too damn high. And that's what both the boys and Singer failed to understand. The stakes were too high. He couldn't afford mistakes with Sam and he'd already made so many. Sam's reaction today. It showed how he'd failed as a father. Failed to prepare his son. John had been in the jungles of Vietnam when he was barely a year older than Sam was now. _'Nam._ Surrounded by suffering and chaos and death and things that still played on his mind when he was tired.

And here was his son, who was more than likely going to be forced to fight a war with potentially higher stakes than anything in that fetid jungle... and he had shattered apart because his father slapped him. It was almost an embarrassment. Sam was too soft and that blame lay entirely at John's feet.

He never wanted any of this for his sons. He wanted to take them to parks and ball games. And circuses and carnivals. Teach them to fish and hunt- although Bobby had attempted that and apparently failed- his damn boys were too soft to shoot a _deer._ He had tried to prepare them in every way he knew how. He taught them to shoot, handle weapons, fight, rely on themselves. He gave them all the military training he'd had and they still lacked something. He was damned if he knew what it was. Some special ingredient that made a Marine.

Dean had a bit more of it, but Sammy just didn't. Dean knew that an order was to be followed. That you didn't question a command decision. That there was no time for _Why?_ because the split second it took to ask the question, could cost someone their life. He didn't want it to be Sam's own. There was only time to act and obey. That's how it needed to be. John hadn't wanted it that way. He never pictured it as a necessity to make his boys like they were until it became a reality. He wanted them to have a life where the biggest concern he had as a father was whether or not the television they watched was appropriate for their age level. Was that really what most civilians worried about? Did that count as a genuine concern for the average American? While John taught Sam and Dean to lay down salt lines and burn hex bags filled with the bones of infants, normal parents were worrying if video games were too violent.

If John allowed himself to ponder, he felt a heavy stirring of guilt that he was robbed of the luxury of the nostalgia parents had for their offspring's childhood years. He had a touch of it for Dean. The thought of little Dean and Mary snuggled with him made his heart twist with longing. Mary's arms wrapped around him, her hair across his chest, and Dean's tiny arms around his neck, snuggled close and safe and warm.

But there was none of that for his second born. The thought of having Sammy as a baby again in his arms only brought him pain. He felt guilty that he associated that precious baby smell with the smell of smoke and fire and death. His memories of those days of cradling his infant son at night brought back memories of being alone and shell shocked in some cruddy hotel room, the paint peeling around him, revealing layers of uglier colors underneath...crumbling like his perfectly constructed civilian life.

Surviving the war and meeting Mary had been a second chance. He'd adapted well to being back home, fallen into the role of husband and father. They'd had their rough patches, certainly. He was independent and a bit driven, and sometimes nightmares kept him up those first few years. But over all, it was the happiest time of his life. And then Dean came and it was even more of a blessing. Dean had been a ray of sunshine- cheerful, exuberant, affectionate. John loved to come home from work and lift him into his arms, cradle him, inhale the scent of his soft blonde hair, the scent of young LIFE, and feel Mary's eyes on him, filled with infinite love.

Four years later- at Mary's insistence (John was content with just one) they had a baby boy they named Samuel. Dean doted on his brother, was almost fascinated by him, as if Sam was a new toy. The best toy he'd ever had-one that interacted with him, tried to mimic him, grabbed at his fingers. John's lip curled into a smile at the thought of it. They probably should've let Dean have the dog he'd always wanted. Kid needed a freaking pet.

Six months of bliss followed with Sam. He was an easy baby, didn't fuss much and seeing Mary so content...

Tears gathered in his eyes. Yeah, that was gone...not coming back. _Don't think about that too hard, John._

After that night, life had been a string of motels and half-furnished rentals. Stuck in darkness, John had to look at his boys every night to find the strength to not put a bullet through his own head. Weeks spent at Bobby's-learning and commiserating. Hunting... because it gave his life purpose because if he could spare one more person the suffering his family had been through then he could hold it together.

 _"At the expense of ruinin a couple, huh?"_

 _Fuck you, Singer._

There was no way to do what he did and remain a model father. Saving someone's life had to come first. Singer should fucking know that. What if a surgeon decided he couldn't perform brain surgery that day because his son wanted him at a little league game? Or a cop skipped out on a call to go home early to spend time with his son? Ludicrous. This time the call that he could've skipped out on had been a trail to save Sam's life.

 _Sammy. I'm sorry that this version of me is the only one you've ever known, kid. Will ever know. That this burnt out shell of John Winchester is the only thing I have left to give you. You deserve more, Sammy. And Dean. You too, Dean.  
_

He glanced in the rear view. The boys were still behind him. Sam looked sullen and Dean was talking animatedly. Big surprise there.

 _Tainted._ Sam had been tainted. He was quite sure of it. The Yellow-Eyed Demon had plans for these children. He hadn't sussed out what yet, but there was most certainly a pattern. An ominous pattern. And his son was one of the pieces in it. His mind had been going non-stop since he'd figured out some of the information.

 _Sammy...what are they planning for you?_ The thought made his stomach clench unpleasantly. The gnawing teeth of anxiety.

John looked for traces of evil in his youngest and found none. He found gentleness and quiet. Unless Sam was opposed and he fell into one of his stubborn moods-then John could feel the anger seething underneath. -Looking for an expression. So far he'd never unloaded it in any way, except maybe a fit of yelling- or very rarely- some tears.

 _What part of Sammy had the demon marked?_ John had to unravel the mystery...had to save Sam. He _owed_ it to him.

He didn't want to pull Dean, or Bobby even, into a secret so dangerous. He didn't want Dean to look at his little brother differently. Dean loved Sam.

John dragged in a deep ragged breath. They were going nowhere. He hadn't even paid attention to which direction he'd been heading. He only wanted away from Singer and his betrayal. Time to clear his head. Some part of him was glad that Sam had jumped into the Impala with his brother or he surely would have been the target of John's frustrations.

John slowed the truck again, easing his foot off the pedal as his mind eased off his anger. Slowly, deliberately. He realized that the boys had to be hungry and tired. John swung the GMC into a diner parking lot and shut down the engine. He saw Dean swing the car neatly into the parking space beside him. He looked at his father through the window and John nodded with a tight smile.

The worry on his eldest's expressive face didn't ease with the gesture. _Shit, this was going to be an awkward meal._ He really needed to teach Dean how to hide his emotions better. That face projected every feeling and thought that played through his son's mind as clearly as if it'd been written on his forehead. Right now it said: _I don't want to leave the safety of the car._

John stepped out and looked to Dean again. Now the face read: _I want to hide under a rock._

John closed the truck door and stepped over to the Impala, placed his hand on the roof. Dean rolled down the window, anxiety in his eyes.

"You boys hungry?"

Dean looked to Sam and back to his father with a false smile. "Sure, Dad."

John nodded. "Okay, come on, let's grab a bite and take and leak."

"Yes sir," but his face said ' _please don't put me in the middle.'_

"Okay." John slapped the hood and started into the diner.


	13. Chapter 13

**Here we go...The events of this chapter alludes to a ONE-SHOT I wrote entitled "Just Like His Brother"... you don't need to read it to understand the text, but if you'd like to, hop on over and give it a read. I'd love to hear from you. Shout out to all the regulars who have followed me on this crazy journey. Hang in there guys, I'm sure most of you know the giant Stanford blow-out is coming soon...I promise fireworks.**

Tense didn't begin to describe the atmosphere once the three of them were seated in the diner. John lowered himself into the booth across from the boys and shot them an appraising glance as he pretended to study the laminated menu. The lamination was peeling off at the sides, just like the formica on the tabletop.

He could sense by the quiet that the two had been fighting in the car on the drive there. He didn't have to guess to figure out what they were arguing about. Dean was trying too hard to put on his game face and Sam looked like he had survived a natural disaster. His eyes and nose were still red, and he seemed diminished somehow- _small_ despite his height. Like he was _wounded._ His son's gaze was firmly on the table top, his shoulders rounded.

John felt a pang. They were going to move on from this the way they always did-sweep the shards under the rug and ignore the fire burning the damn house down. There was no other choice except to be caught in the blaze and they didn't have the luxury of that. Sam would just have to learn to push through.

* * *

Dean hadn't felt so sick in a long time. He'd spent the better part of the morning throwing up. His cell phone rang. He could hear it in the adjoining room. _Shit_. It had to be his father. He pulled himself up off the tile, using the toilet as leverage and tried to stand. "Sammy," he whispered. Then louder, "Sammy, can you get that?" His own gruff voice shot a pang through his head and he winced.

"Hey Dad... Dean's in the bathroom. Hang on a minute."

Sam walked over and stood in the door way. His eyes traced Dean's pathetic form. He put the phone to his ear again. "Dad, I think he's taking a shower. Can I give him a message? Okay... yeah, well you have to give me a minute to get him then."

Sam hit the hold button. "Dean... Dad wants to talk to you."

Dean groaned and sat back down on the floor, back propped against the tub. He swallowed a couple of times and cleared his throat. His brother was watching him, carefully. "O..kay..." his voice caught. He cleared his throat again and reached out silently for the cell phone. Sam gave it to him, Dean squinted and hit the button that returned to the call. "Hey Dad."

"Dean, this hunt is a bit more complicated than it first appeared. I need back up. I'll be back in town in about 5 hours. I need you to be ready to roll, you got that?"

"Yes sir." Dean's voice was hoarse and he winced as he heard it.

There was a pause on the other line. "Have you been drinking?"

"No sir."

"Good. Because I need you sharp. No going into this wounded. You hear me?"

"Yes sir. I'll..." Dean swallowed a wave of nausea. "Be ready."

"See you soon, son."

The line went dead. Dean dropped the phone and closed his eyes. His head drooped forward. "S'mmy. Get me some Tylenol, will ya?"

He could hear Sam rustling in his duffel bag, the rattle of the pill bottle. It was almost too loud for him to take.

Sam stood in the doorway again. "You gonna sit there all day?"

"Just til the heaves stop."

"Here." Sam filled the disposable plastic tumbler on the motel room sink with water and gave it to Dean. He pressed two white pills into his palm. Dean swallowed them down and sat there for a moment before opening his eyes and hauling himself to his feet. Sam's expression was somewhere between disgusted and concerned. Dean shouldered him out of the way and flopped down onto his stomach on one of the beds. It creaked loudly under his weight. "If I die Sammy, take care of Baby."

"Next time don't drink so much, jackass."

Dean cracked an eye open. "Paying for it now but had fun Sammy," he whispered gravelly. "Laughter, mayhem, women. Good times."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that."

"Shut up, gotta sleep this off." Dean mumbled . "Got to be on my feet again in a few hours."

"How are you gonna do that Dean? You can't even walk, let alone hunt. Dad's gonna kill you."

"I'm full of surprises. You'll see. Give me a few hours, I'll be golden."

"The only surprise to me is that you keep doing this to yourself."

"Sammy. Somewhere there's a little redhead who won't be able to walk right for a week. Worth it. Trust me." Dean didn't have to look to know that Sam was wearing an expression of disapproval. He'd seen a lot of that as of late. More than he wanted to.

"I don't see the correlation between alcohol poisoning and red heads."

"One night stands just don't work so well without both of you being kinda drunk. Trust me." He heard Sam's little exhale through his nose. " _Bitch_ ," he mumbled, his voice half-muffled by the pillow he was talking into. "I'm under enough stress with you and Dad locking horns every other day. Don't judge me for blowing off a little steam."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to." Dean turned his head and opened his eyes to see Sam looking at him from across the room. He couldn't quite read the expression and he cocked an eyebrow as he studied him with the one eye not smooshed against the mattress. Sam looked away, arms crossed, his jaw was set. He looked almost... defiant and worried. Certainly worried but something else was in there too. Dean felt that same wave of anxiety he'd felt in the Impala a few weeks back surge through him again. Sam was planning something. Sam had some secret, some thought he wasn't willing to share. Something was wrong.

Jumbled lines from a song lyric floated unbidden to his head. _Black coffee...bad feeling I'm losing you._

Sam was drifting somewhere that his brother couldn't follow. Dean closed his eyes against the returning nausea and swallowed with a groan. A few moments later Sam placed the trashcan next to his bed. "Here...don't go into that hunt compromised, Dean. Don't let Dad push you into that."

Dean weakly batted his hand at his brother. "D'nt worry, S'mmy. 'M good." He threw up into the trash can.

"Yeah. You _sound_ good." Despite the tone, he felt Sam's hand rest briefly against the back of his head, brushing his fingers through Dean's hair. Then it was gone. Something was definitely wrong.

Dean drifted back to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

Dean opened his eyes as the sunlight cracked through the chintzy blinds of the motel room. He glanced at the clock...7 AM. He'd been out most of the night drinking, his most common past time on weeks when Dad was out of town. He wanted to go back to sleep but damn, his bladder didn't agree with that plan.

Something felt off almost immediately. His hunter's instinct clued him in to a vague feeling of _wrongness._

That was enough.

Dean scanned the room, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet, fully awake, and ready to act. His eyes settled on Sam's empty bed, then panned to the vacant bathroom. "Sammy?" He asked, even though it was a stupid impulse. There was nowhere for Sam to _be_ unless he was under the bed or hiding in the shower.

Maybe he'd gone out for a soda from one of the vending machines? At 7 AM...unlikely...but still.

Dean poked his head outside into the morning sun. "Sammy?" Then he noticed.

Baby was gone.

His heart dropped. He slammed the door and punched it once, reveling in the sting of the aluminum against his knuckes. _"Sonofabitch!_ "

He heard a text ping in on his cell phone.

* * *

Whatever Sam was expecting when he walked through the door, Dean was fairly sure it was not the punch that sent his little brother reeling into the wall with a "What the hell, Dean?!"

"You selfish _sonovabitch!_ Where the _hell_ have you been? _Answer me_!"

Sam looked up from where he'd been thrown against the drywall. He put his hand over the red mark blooming on his cheek and gaped at his brother.

"I've been thinking you were _dead_! _Dead_ , Sam! Carved up into a hundred pieces and thrown into the gutter."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Jeez Dean, calm down. Melodramatic much?"

Dean cocked back a fist and Sam stood and looked him squarely in the face. "Do you want an answer or do you want to keep taking swings at me?"

"No. This will do." With lightning reflexes, Dean grabbed a handful of Sam's Luke Skywalker farmer hair and bounced his head into the wall for good measure.

Sam yelped and pushed away. He bit his lip and Dean could see him shaking. He felt satisfied that he could make Sam have a little taste of how he'd been feeling for the last four days. "You left me stranded. You stole the freaking car! I've been trying to cover for you with Dad! I should've told him- you selfish bastard!"

Sam put his hand in his hair and felt the tender spot on his head, wincing with a hiss. "I _texted_ you, Dean! I told you I'd be back soon."

"Soon. Four fucking days is _soon_? And then you turn off your phone so everything goes right to voicemail?"

"I...couldn't..." Sam stuttered, swallowed like he was gathering his courage. "I couldn't have distractions, okay. I couldn't have you rattling my cage and psyching me out. This was important, Dean."

"Fill me in on what's more important than your only brother. I'm dying to know. ...Where the hell were you?"

"Palo Alto, California."

Completely flummoxed, Dean raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Palo Alto."

"What the hell is in Palo Alto? You running off to join a cult?"

"Stanford."

"What?"

"Stanford University."

Dean actually laughed. He couldn't help it. "You think Dad's gonna pay a million dollars to send you to some ivy league school or are you planning to take out loans that you need to pay off til you die?"

"Neither." Sam's expression looked momentarily hopeful, and he said almost imploringly. "I think I've got a full ride. _A FULL RIDE._ I don't have to pay a penny. _Dad_ doesn't have to pay a penny." His brows rose into an earnest peak and Dean caught the plea behind it, the silent request to be understood. To be proud. "They highly suggested I go to Stanford to have an in-person interview with admissions, I didn't have money for a bus ticket and it would take so much longer to get there, so I took the Impala. It went really well. I think I'm in. I'm really in." A cautious, disbelieving smile crept over Sam's face, inviting Dean to join him in savoring the accomplishment.

Dean felt inexplicably betrayed. "How long have you been planning this?"

Sam shrugged. "A while..."

"You bastard." Dean's voice was a low growl.

"What? Dean, I thought you'd be happy for me."

"Happy? Happy? You think I'd be happy that you're abandoning your family to fuck off to some university and study Plato?"

"I'm not _abandoning_ you, Dean."

"Oh really? What is it then?"

"I'm going to college. _College._ Like normal people do."

Sam's tone was calm, but Dean could see the emotion building underneath it. Wouldn't take much to push him over the edge. Dean pushed. "We are not normal people, Sam."

The explosion was immediate. "You don't think I get that?! _Normal_ people would be _happy_ their brother is going to an ivy league school. Normal people don't bash their sibling's heads into the fucking wall because they went to a college interview!" Sam's eyes were welling. "This shouldn't be a goddamned crisis! I shouldn't be standing here yelling at you while I'm bleeding all over my only dress shirt!"

Dean didn't understand how to vocalize how much the prospect of Sam leaving terrified him. How the very thought of it hollowed him out inside. How Sam was his life line, his buffer, his compass that kept him sane. How Sam was his one constant in a lifetime of uncertainty. Instead he met Sam's tears with anger. "You're going to _cry_ over this? Don't you think I feel like crying because I thought my fucking brother was dead somewhere?"

Sam's lower lip trembled in response. His face contorted for a moment as he fought with himself to keep the tears at bay. God, it seemed that he'd seen Sam cry more in the last eight months then he had in all their years growing up.

Dean continued his tirade, still needing to vent his frustrations. "Maybe I want to cry because my only brother is leaving me to go rub elbows with blue blooded assholes. But do I? NO. I deal with it."

Sam took a breath through his nose and cleared his throat. "I'm not leaving you, I'm just...I'm starting a new chapter of my life."

"Yeah and how well do you think I'm going to fit into that "new chapter," Sam? You gonna call me on weekends and tell me about your pop quiz and your chess club and I'm gonna tell you about the consistency of the intestines I found hanging out of some kid's abdomen? Or maybe the way the latest poltergeist bounced me down the stairs. That should go well with your frat pledge stories, right?"

"Do you even _hear_ yourself? Dean this is so fucked up that this is our life...You can get out too! Come with me."

Oh my god. The kid was so naive. "And what, work at Walmart with my GED?"

"Get a job as a mechanic, go to a community college. We can get an apartment together. It will be me and you like it always is!"

"I don't wanna be a freaking _mechanic,_ Sam! I'm a hunter."

Sam's expression closed off.

"Sorry. I don't run out on my duty."

"What duty?! We're not in the military, Dean."

"No but we're in the middle of a goddamned war. You think I can just go be Joe Normal when I KNOW there's supernatural sons of bitches killing people out there? Killing women. Killing _kids?_ We save people, Sammy. We're heroes. And yeah-sometimes it's hard and sometimes it sucks but that's what we do."

"I don't want to do it." The voice was broken, tired. Didn't belong to a seventeen year old. "I don't get the high you do from hunting. Even when we succeed. I just see the death."

"The death of what? The _monster?_ "

"Sometimes...yeah. Or the rotting flesh in the casket that we set on fire. That we really don't have to the right to mess with... I don't. I just don't." Sam's voice trailed off, his shoulders rounded. Blood was tricking from the small cut in his scalp that the wall had just put there with Dean's help. It dripped very slowly onto the rumpled white Oxford shirt. Dean took in the pair of khaki Dockers and loafers he'd never seen his brother wear. He must have been saving up for them for some time. He flashed back to months ago when Sam had told him he had extra money from skipping out on school lunches-the night he'd hiked out in the rain to the diner. The plan must have been well in place back _then._

Sam dropped his gaze to the floor. He looked so young and small (how did someone of Sam's stature even manage to look small?) and utterly... defeated. It made Dean's heart stutter. He softened slightly, walked the 10 steps to the bathroom and grabbed a towel.

Dean circled back to Sam and pressed the towel to the side of his skull to stop the bleeding.

Sam winced and pulled away in shock. Dean caught the look of mistrust.

"Easy, Sammy. You should take off that shirt. The stains are fresh enough I can still get them out."

Sam didn't give a verbal response. He began to unbutton the white cotton as Dean held the towel to his head.

"Head wounds bleed like a bitch." Dean observed. "They're like melodramatic wounds or something."

"Tons of blood supply to the head." Sam responded flatly. He pulled the Oxford from his already broad shoulders and tossed it onto the nearest bed.

Dean placed Sam's hand over the towel. "Keep pressure."

He retrieved the shirt, studied it calmly. "Yeah this shouldn't be a problem. I can fix it."

"None of this should be a problem. But apparently it is." Sam's voice was almost a whisper. "I shouldn't have to steal the car to go to see my new college. I shouldn't have to _hide_ what I've been doing...like I'm dealing crack or something. I've applied to so many places. Got accepted to almost every one of them, but I knew I needed a scholarship."

Dean paused, still holding the shirt. "We move around constantly. How did you even get mail without a permanent address?"

Sam hesitated.

Dean suddenly put it together. "Bobby? You dragged Bobby into this?"

"Care of Bobby Singer. Pretty easy to do."

Dean smirked appreciatively despite himself. "You sly bastard."

Sam snorted. "Secrets and lies. Learned it from the best."

"Would that be me or Dad?"

"Both."

Dean's green eyes met his brother's and the eldest felt oddly vulnerable. Like Sam could see straight through him. "Is it really so bad, Sammy? Living with me?"

"Oh _Dean._ " Sam's voice was full of emotion.

Just then the lock in the door jiggled. Both of them froze to the spot like a pair of deer hearing a truck on an old country road..

John Winchester shouldered the door open, dragging his duffel bag and leaning heavily against the door frame. He took in the scene, and his weary expression changed to one of surprise. The shock was evident on his face. "What's going on here?"

 **And so now I do my traditional begging for reviews. We're getting close...feed the muse, please! She only lives on reviews.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Thank you so much for all the awesome feedback last chapter! See, you fed the muse and she made me update this way quicker. Seriously, you guys are awesome. I even had several people log in as "guests" to leave a review! Thank you. It makes all the annoying formatting to post this worth it.**

John Winchester was in quite a bit of pain. He was also exhausted. However, even in his compromised state, the sight before him was a little too unusual for him not to notice. "What's going on here?"

The air was positively _charged_ with emotion. It held the kind of heavy weight it did whenever he accidentally walked in on a married couple arguing. And the boys responded with the same thrashing off-kilter response of the guilty party desperately trying to cover their spat.

"Dad," Dean responded to the question with a nervous overly friendly smile and a light-hearted "Hey!"

Yep. He was trying to buy himself time to come up with some bullshit story as to what happened.

John was going to let him. He was going to let him explain _why_ Sam was shirtless holding a towel to a bleeding head wound and Dean was holding the bloody shirt in his hands looking for all the world like a dog caught grabbing a plate of spaghetti off of the kitchen table. At the very least it would provide him entertainment. Once he ascertained Sam wasn't mortally wounded, that is.

He ignored Dean's greeting and dropped his duffel to the floor. Getting the weight off his shoulder was a relief. He closed the door behind him and made sure to audibly click the lock before he turned back around. _"Well?"_

A moment of silence. _Yeah, nothing suspicious there._

"Sam you're bleeding, are you okay?" He approached his youngest, took the towel away and parted Sam's hair to take a look at the scalp. Sam winced. "Doesn't look too bad. Just bleeding a lot. Take care of it. Once you stop it from bleeding make sure to clean it and put on some ointment."

He took his hand away and Sam replaced the towel.

John took a deep breath. He was not feeling well. "Okay, one of you want to fill me in on how this happened? And why Sam is dressed like he just came from Church. I didn't even know you owned loafers."

"They're new." Sam said, averting his gaze.

Dean jumped in. "Sam went on a date."

"John raised an eyebrow. _A date?_ With who?"

"A girl from school," Sam mumbled, his lowered gaze shifting to his brother out of the corner of his eye. John caught the look of thankful relief that flickered across his boyish feautures _. Young. God, he was still so young._ It was easy to forget at times.

"And she split your head open? Good for her."

Dean snorted at the joke. "No. Sammy, being as smooth as always, slipped on the sidewalk coming home and cracked his head on one of the parking meters... I had him take off his shirt so I can get the blood out before it stains." He held out the bloodied shirt to his father, like somehow it proved his story.

John grabbed Sam's jaw and tilted his face up to the light to examine the red mark on his son's high cheekbone. He could feel the tension in his youngest as he encroached on his space once more. "And this was before or after she punched you in the face?"

He let go and Sam took a step back. Simultaneously, he sensed Dean closing the gap between them. His energy was non-confrontational but John was no fool. The eldest was getting ready to intervene if things between him and Sam got ugly.

They were going to if he didn't get a few answers.

"She didn't punch him in the face," Dean said. "I did."

"What?" John took his focus off Sam and zeroed in on his eldest.

"Dipshit stole the Impala to impress her. When he got home I might have over-reacted." Dean winced. "...A little bit."

"You did this to your brother, Dean?"

"Well he was gone for a long time. And he didn't tell me he was going." Dean added sheepishly.

John looked at Sam. "This true?"

"Yes, sir."

The trouble with having two boys, John mused, is one would lie and the other would swear to it. Even when they were mad at each other. The bigger threat was always John. It was some psychotic brotherhood code of ethics. He'd served his time in the Marines. He understood. He also knew that this was closer to the truth, but that the boys were still concealing something.

"So there was no parking meter involved?"

"I may have tracked them down and sort of punched Sam... and he might have lost his balance and dinged his head on the parking meter..." Dean was starting to look a little frightened.

John sighed. "I don't even know where to start with you two. Dean, nowhere in _protect Sammy_ does it mean use him as a punching bag when you lose your temper." If he were in a different mood he might take umbrage at Dean's attempt to cover his guilt with a lie, but fuck. It was Dean. Lying came as naturally to the kid as breathing. And he was in too much pain to pretend to be a good father and care.

"I don't need to be watched anymore, Dad." Sam protested, breaking his train of thought.

"Well, apparently, you do. Sneaking off to make out with some girl is not keeping you safe."

"Dean's been doing that since he was 16!"

"You're not Dean. I want you at school and I want you home until further notice. You got that?" He heard his own voice take on his stern military edge.

"How is that fair?"

"It's not, Sam. Now enough of the lip."

 _"Dad!_ "

"Don't start with me, Sammy. How many times have I told you we don't make friends at school? We don't form relationships. You're a hunter and it's a liability. You got us. You got your family and that's it. Every other relationship can be twisted and used against you. It makes you weak. Any girlfriend, any friends, any outside attachments can be used as leverage."

Sam's expression twisted and John could see him winding up for a rebuttal.

"This isnt a job, Sam. This is a _life._ A hunter can't have those kind of connections ever. You'll just put those people in danger, get them killed." God, why couldn't he get this through Sam's head?

"Dean has girlfriends."

"Dean doesn't get attached to them."

Sam snorted. "Wham, Bam, thank you, M'am. Got it Dad, _thanks."_

"HEY! Enough with the lip. Dean can separate the emotional from the physical and I'm not so sure that you can."

"Looks like I'm never going to get the chance to find out, I guess." Came the predictably sullen reply.

"And _you-_ "John whirled on Dean, knowing that he was going to lose his temper with his youngest if he kept talking. "Do _not_ split your brother's head open again or I will split your ass open, you got that?"

Dean swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"I'm gone a week and you two can't stay out of trouble?" John knew instinctively that he didn't have even half the story. He was also too tired to grill them to get to the bottom of the spat. If the boys could work it out themselves fine. He crossed the room to the bed, unable to conceal his limp.

He saw Dean's eyes grow concerned. "Dad, you're hurt!"

 _"Was_ hurt. I spent a few days in the hospital. Was discharged last night. I'm fine, just sore, son."

"Dad! Why didn't you call me and tell me?! I would have come."

 _"What?_ And interrupt Sam's date?"

Sam's jaw tightened at the jibe. He looked away.

Dean approached, all concern and soft, green eyes. His hands hovered over his father as he leaned down. "What can I get you?"

"Come here." John motioned him down.

Dean bent over and John encircled him with his arms in a tight hug. Dean seemed surprised at first and then melted into the embrace. John kissed the side of his son's head and reveled in the feel of Dean's spiky hair against his nose. He allowed himself that for a moment, just a moment, before he thumped Dean on the back and pulled away.

He saw Sam watching them from the sidelines and would have gestured him over but he knew the tenderness would not be well received. There was a range of emotions roiling around in his youngest's eyes. John was too tired to try to discern any of them. "Sammy. Go get me an ice pack."

"Yes, sir."

"This hunt turned out to the way more complicated than I thought going in. I thought it was a single witch. It's not just a witch I'm dealing with... it's a coven. I sure could use some back up."

"We're with you, Dad." Dean's face lit up at the prospect of an honest to god monster hunt.

"Easy, Dean, don't get too excited."

Sam handed John an ice pack.

"I have to organize a game plan and I'm going in here wounded. I need a few days rest." He winced and placed the ice pack on his shoulder. "At least...We need to finish on the coven I started with. I'm afraid I got hit with a hex bag before I finished the job. Found it just in the nick of time too."

Dean looked horrified. " _Dad?"_

"Bitch hid it in the glove compartment of the truck."

"Messing with a man's car. Now that's just evil."

John favored his son with an amused smile. "Yeah, I figured that would be over the line for you." He bit back a groan as he shifted to try and lie down.

Dean helped him lift his legs up and rest them on the bed. "What else can I do, Dad? Anything?"

"No, Dean. I just need some sleep." He motioned Dean closer. "Hey, kid."

"Yeah."

"Sammy needs you. Be good to him, okay. No knocking him into shit. That's my job."

Dean snorted and John patted his face, smoothed the backs of his fingers over the soft cheek. He moved his gaze over surreptitiously and noticed Sam looking at them with a quiet reverence. There was something sad in his eyes. There was so often something sad in his eyes anymore. It made John think of ceilings on fire and empty cradles.


	16. Chapter 16

**As, always, thank you so much for any and all feedback. It means the world. The following chapter is once again referencing the events of my other One-Shot entitled, _Just Like His Brother._ You don't need to read it at all to understand the events... but it adds a bit of depth. So give it a peek if you like.**

* * *

"Sam... stay with me." Dean barked the order, nearly tripping over a grave marker as he did so. " _Sonofabitch_ ," he whispered.

He hated the small headstones and the way the ground settled all unevenly in the older cemeteries was like a freaking death trap just inviting someone to break an ankle. Sam followed behind him, shining the flashlight in a wide arc around them.

"God! Sam, pick a freaking path and stay there. I feel like you've got a strobe light."

"Bite me, Dean."

"Bitch, I will end you..."

"It's here." Sam said. "Thank god it's freaking here."He stopped at a lopsided marker and toed it with his boot. "At least it's warm enough outside that the ground shouldn't be frozen. Thank God for small favors."

"Blondes. After this I'm gonna find me a blonde with a nice ass and I'm gonna do shots off her body. And then I'm gonna-"

 _"Dean_! God man, spare me the brain melting details. I'm fucking tired."

 _"You're_ tired? Dad's had me running all over Idaho trying to locate these bitches."

"Yeah, well it wasn't so fun for me either." Sam's answer was typically sullen.

Dean ignored him "...And then we find out that they're summoning the ghosts of dead _children_ to kill people." Dean's eyes went wide. "I mean what the fuck, man?! I hate witches. I had that bitch last night pull a freaking exorcist and spew green puke all over me." Dean paused and swallowed rapidly, the recollection suddenly causing the bile to rise in his throat. He leaned over and put his hands on his knees, breathing through his nose.

Sam shook his head. "Hey, you're the one that thought this was going to be fun somehow. Like when has a hunt _ever_ been fun?"

"When I don't have to listen to your mouth." Dean stood back up and grabbed the shovel from Sam. He started digging, trying hard to ignore the fact that it would be a tiny coffin they would be uncovering. A child's corpse they would be burning. He wondered what Sam was feeling.

Since that day a month ago at the motel Sam hadn't mentioned anything about Stanford to Dean. He'd been distantly polite to their father. It felt nice. It felt like a trap. I mean this was the kid that had actually managed to start a fight over a _non-existent_ girlfriend with their father that day. Over a girlfriend that Dean had made up. Over a fake date. Dean had thought about how utterly ludicrous it was several times. And now everything was "Yes,sir" and "How high, sir?" It was just damn wrong. He tried to convince himself that Sam was staying. He was afraid to ask.

"Sam," he swallowed hard.

"Yeah?"

"Are you still going to college?"

There was a long pause.

Dean felt his heart speed up. Why was he asking this now? Knee deep in soil over a child's grave.

Sam stopped his own digging. They were getting really efficient at tag team grave digging. It was almost disturbing. "I don't know. I...I want to. I mean...I hate my life Dean. This isn't me. This isn't what I want to do."

"Well trust me no one wants to flambe Little Johnny here. But I mean it's not like we burn kids every week."

"You don't see the problem that we burn kids at all?"

Dean shrugged. "Not when they're dead as a doornail. And being used to kill people."

"Yeah," Sam said. "Point taken." Then, in an even quieter voice, almost too quiet for Dean to hear him in the humid night air... "His name was Jimmy."

Dean didn't acknowledge the statement. "You're still really young, Sammy. Give it time-you'll grow into the job."

Sam snorted. "Dean, I will never grow into this job. I'm never going to be like Dad says. I'm never going to cut off every single person that I could care about because they might be used against me. That's just ridiculous. I'm never _not_ going to have a wife or friends or maybe even kids."

"This family isn't enough for you, huh?"

"It's not about _you_ , Dean. Please don't make it about you. You're great." Sam's expression was earnest, all puppy dog eyes and honesty. "You're the best brother. But you can't be EVERYTHING to me."

Dean felt that like a stone in his gut. Of course, he'd been drinking a little...a lot. So maybe it was the alcohol he felt there and not some formless hallowed out fear that maybe Sam didn't need him in the way that he needed Sam.

"Seriously," Sam said deadpan. "You _can't_ be all things to me. You're not my type, dude."

"Shut up."

"And that's the thing, Dean. You shouldn't _have_ to be everything. Normal people have a mother and a father and sometimes siblings and friends and co-workers and lovers and that's healthy. It's not good to have only _one_ person to lean on. And it's not fair to that one person. You shouldn't have to shoulder all my burdens along with your own. There should be others to share the weight, you know... I want others."

Dean grunted. "Whatever, Sammy. We're not married. You don't have to explain your urge to see other people."

"Dad just pisses me off with that "it's only us" shit."

"It _is_ only us."

"Yeah, that's where you're both wrong."

Dean resumed digging. "So that was the longest non-answer to a question I've ever heard. Are you leaving or not?"

"I don't know."

"Yeah, well it's your decision, man." Dean said in a tone that clearly indicated that it really wasn't. His shovel hit the coffin lid with a hollow thump. "Finally. Let's burn this bitch and go back to the motel."

"Dean! Behind you!"

Dean whirled around in time to be thrown backwards by a 10-year old boy. He turned his fall into a controlled tumble and rolled with it, relatively unharmed. The ghost vanished and reappeared next to him. Dean leapt to his feet.

Sam was in the hole scrabbling with the end of the spade to pry the lid off of the coffin. The boy turned his stony ashen face to look at the younger Winchester.

He flickered out of sight.

Sam struggled to find purchase on the earthen walls. His fingers finally got a good grip and he pulled himself out of the grave. "Dean? Where'd it go?"

"I don't know," Dean replied, jogging over to his brother's side. "Just move it, Sammy. Salt and burn!"

He reached for the can of gasoline. Without warning, he was slammed into again. He toppled forward into the 6-foot pit. Sam yelled his name and reached out to catch him. The leather of Dean's jacket snagged between Sam's fingers for just a moment before Dean's body weight ripped it away and he fell onto the exposed body with a cry of protest.

Dean heard a sickening crunch as he slammed into the brittle bones of the half decayed corpse. It took him a moment to realize the crunch was the dead boy and not his own skeleton. " _Gross!_ Oh God, Sam!"

It was then that Dean became aware of the noise of Sam's struggle.

"Sam?"He sprang up and climbed his way out of the hole, grabbing the canister of salt and flinging some of it wildly at the ghost. Sam was pinned beneath the boy's grip, slowly being throttled-the veins popping out on his forehead as he struggled to breathe. The salt made the boy evaporate and continued it's trajectory to land with a spattering shower of grains in Sam's hair and face. Sam took a gasping breath like a landed fish and sat up. "Dean. Hurry."

Dean was already on it, haphazardly starting to pour the salt over the grave. Suddenly the canister itself kicked out of his hand and sailed across the field. "What the hell?"

The kid flickered into view again.

"All right, you are seriously starting to piss me off."

Sam regained his feet and dashed after the salt.

The ghost vanished and appeared in Sam's trajectory with no warning. Sam slammed into it and reeled sideways. The fucking thing was smart. It knew what they were doing. Dean's patience disappeared.

"Come here, you little Macauley Caulkin Home Alone reject!"

It flickered out of sight again. "Sonofabitch! Get over here and let me stab you with something!"

Sam staggered to the salt and flung the canister into the grave, praying that his aim was true. It disappeared into the hole. He limped back to the gasoline can, panting. This time as he closed his fingers around the handle he was ready for the sudden kick. His arm felt like it was going to dislocate from the blow but he kept a hold of it and started pouring.

Dean dashed over, pulling the lighter from his pocket. He flicked it once, twice, three times until the flame sprang up and he dropped it on the corpse. "Adios, Motherfucker!"

The grave burst into flames as the child flicked back into sight and tried to knock Dean into the pyre with a body slam aimed for the Winchester's knees. This time Sam was quicker. His fingers grabbed Dean's jacket and he yanked him away from the fiery pit. The spirit caught into flames that started at its feet and consumed upwards until it disappeared with an eerie screech.

Dean righted himself and looked at Sammy with a smile, still riding the adrenaline spike.

Sam made an attempt to return it between panting breaths, but his eyes seemed haunted. "I am so ready for a warm shower."

"I'm so ready for action." Dean bounced on his toes like a prize fighter to punctuate his point. He grabbed the shovel and started to fill in the mess they'd made with gusto. Only the utter silence in the pregnant night air gave him warning of an approach. He looked up in time to see the shape of a woman among the headstones. Tall and imposing, a virtual Amazon of a woman. She was the leader of the coven-and powerful, they'd learned that already from their Dad's mishap that landed him in the hospital weeks before. The other bitches they'd dealt with seemed like unassuming house wives...but her...she screamed power.

How she'd anticipated that they'd be here at this moment was a mystery. For a second he had the panicked thought that she'd killed his father and come after them but he swept it aside and gripped his shovel like a staff. He was so ready for a fight. "Come on, bitch!"

A rock sailed through the air toward his head in answer. _Fuck? She can move shit with her mind?_ He blocked it with the shovel head. It hit with enough force to shatter and throw him sideways.

She was already halfway to him, when he heard Sam's shout. "Dean, run!" Which probably would have been the most prudent course of action. The Impala and her weapons cache was not that far away.

Dean had never been prudent.

He ignored his brother and charged to meet her. She grabbed his shovel with both hands before he could even swing it. He struggled to break it loose. Damn, she was strong. This wasn't normal person strong, this was like 'roid pumped freak strong. Dean's upper lip curled as he fought her, his eyes hardening. He could hear his own groan of effort while she remained deadly silent, dark eyes fixed on him.

She won, somehow knocking him off balance and twisting it out of his grip. The shovel head met his ribs with a metallic song.

Dean swore and fell back.

She advanced and he kicked the shovel upwards with his booted foot and simultaneously pulled his pocketknife. It sprang open with a flick of his wrist. Dean exploited the brief opening in her defenses and grabbed a fistful of the witch's long dark hair in one hand. He swept the knife across her throat, severing the carotid artery before burying it in her neck, and a spray of blood painted his face.

She hit him with some some sort of violent surge of power and Dean was flung across the cemetery from the blast like a rag doll before he smacked into a tombstone. He lay there panting, trying to get his bearings.

"Dean! _Dean!"_

Dean looked up at Sammy's figure standing over him. He still had the buzz of adrenaline rushing through him, but he was hurting as well, his angry ribs floating through the blood lust with throbbing bouts of pain. His ankle hurt too. He tried to sit up with a smile, almost couldn't, and he lay partially on his side, still panting. He smiled through the discomfort and wiped at the spray of witch's blood that had wet his entire face. His eyes met Sam's.

Sam had stopped several feet away, virtually transfixed by his brother. His expression seemed completely out of place. Something Dean hadn't really ever seen before. He couldn't even read it. _Pity? Revulsion?_

"Sammy, snap out of it and help me up, man."

Sam approached cautiously and offered his hand to Dean. Dean grabbed it and got to his feet with a groan. He couldn't put weight on his ankle. He leaned against Sam as they shuffled to the car.

"That was reckless, Dean."

"That was awesome. Bitch is dead. I'm alive. I'm all good."

"I'm not so sure you are," Sam said under his breath.

Dean brooked no argument. None at all.


	17. Chapter 17

**_Once again have to thank Alex Hamato and Jenny for the guidance._**

* * *

 _"In between jobs, Sam and Dean would sometimes get a day - sometimes a week, if they were lucky...They could go anywhere and do anything. They drove 1,000 miles for an Ozzy show, two days for a Jayhawks game. And when it was clear, they'd park her in the middle of nowhere, sit on the hood, and watch the stars... for hours... without saying a word."_

 _-The Prophet Chuck_

 _Swan Song_

Dean found himself enjoying Sam's look of startlement as he swung the bathroom door open to find Dean standing closely on the other side.

He wrapped the blue towel more firmly around his waist and knitted his brows together. "Um... Hi Dean... you have to use the bathroom or something?"

Dean smiled and turned to watch as his little brother shouldered past him and grabbed a clean t-shirt. God, Sammy was getting tall. Was already well above Dean's height and still growing. He was lean and bound to put on muscle too. He was going to be a big guy.

"Okay," Sam paused, "this is just creepy. Can I get dressed now? I'm late for school as it is."

"Sammy," Dean said, gearing up all the persuasive charm he had at his disposal. "How about you skip school and we drive to the coast, huh? He held up the keys to the impala and jangled them. We're only 2 hours out from Wildwood."

Sam hesitated. Dean saw the wheels in his head spinning.

"I graduate in a few weeks...I really shouldn't..."

" _Sammy_. C'mon . It's your 18th birthday. It only happens once. Let's blow this town and go have an awesome day."

Sam stood holding his shirt, mop of dark hair still wet. His jaw tightened. "I'm not..."

"C'mon, dude." Dean flashed his teeth in a grin, jangled the keys again. "Remember when I used to pull you out of middle school and we'd go do something fun?"

Sam met Dean's eyes and the struggle in his expression extinguished itself abruptly. "Yeah. Yeah. Alright."

Too abruptly.

Dean couldn't hide his surprise. "Really?" He'd expected more of a protest. It almost seemed out of character to give in so quickly. He'd actually been fully prepared to be shot down.

"Yeah." Sam said, pulling on his t-shirt.

Dean blinked. "Okay then. I'll grab some beer and throw it in the Impala. We can stop on the way for brunch."

The car ride there was pleasant, very pleasant Dean thought, open windows, sunshine, his baby brother riding shot gun. Listening to tunes in the Impala. Life didn't get much better.

Sam for his part seemed in a particularly good mood, smiling, offering the occasional joke. Sam's humor was dry and sarcastic and pointedly devastating when he chose to employ it.

Whenever they stopped, Dean's green eyes would slide to Sam to gauge his expression, to memorize the profile sitting beside him. Sam as he was then, the shaggy hair, the dimpled smile, the sloped nose. God, he was an adult now. An adult sitting beside him. When did that happen?

Sam noted the look at one of the stop signs and smiled self consciously, his eyes meeting his brother's . "Hey Dean, what is it?"

"Nothing, bitch. Look at you, 18-years old." He graced Sam with a look of paternal pride. "Great things lie in store for you, Sammy. Beer. Women. Permanent Driver's License."

"Dean, I've been drinking beer since I was like 14."

"Yeah, but you'll be able to order it legally when you're 21. Just a few years off. Totally different than me and Dad slipping you a brew now and then."  
Dean pulled into traffic. "Lotsa milestones ahead."

Sam had gone quiet.

"What?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing." He tried to cover with a smile and those were so damn rare anymore, Dean wasn't going to push it. Today he was already racking up more than his fair share. He wasn't going to set a foot wrong to ruin this streak.

They ended up on the boardwalk, Dean openly eyeing the women who walked by in bikinis or crop tops and daisy dukes. Long legs, long hair, full lips. Too much sensory stimulation for him.

Sam for his part seemed more interested in the shops and booths they passed.

Dean sometimes really wondered if his brother had been secretly castrated at birth. Then he caught Sam surreptitiously eyeing a brunette in a sundress and he felt a little better. The kid was mortal after all.

"One of my bucket lists is to hit Daytona during spring break," he declared.

"Dean. You would do so much damage down there."

"I know. It'd be awesome."

"To yourself."

Dean shrugged off the truth of Sammy's statement. "It's girls gone wild 24/7 down there and you'd probably be sitting in the corner reading a book. You need to learn how to have fun."

Sam shrugged, the crippling self-consciousness that John's youngest seemed cursed with rising to the foreground . "I don't know, it's just not my scene. I don't like crowds and people I don't know."

"People you don't know are new people to talk to, Sammy. New stories to hear..." Dean dropped his voice into a decidedly dirty octave. "New pussy to conquer."

Sam snorted his disapproval.

"Okay," Dean amended. "First you gotta conquer _any_ pussy."

His little brother flushed, shook his head. "You are so amazingly inappropriate sometimes."

Dean ruffled Sam's hair like he was a pet dog. "I try."

"You succeed. Seriously..." Sam squinted into the sunlight. "So what are we doing, rides? A movie? Games?"

Dean winced at the thought of the rides. His ribs still didn't like being jostled since his tangle with the witch.

* * *

The matinee made Dean pick an adult themed Hooters-type establishment for dinner so he could reclaim some measure of his masculinity.

"Dude that was the gayest movie I've ever seen." Dean picked up one of his fries and studied it a moment before he slipped it into his mouth.

"I thought it was pretty good. They took some really big artistic risks."

 _Artistic risks?_ What eighteen year old even said shit like that? "Pretty good? _Dude_." Dean's took a swig of beer, noticed that his bottom lip was slightly swollen as he pressed it against the cool neck of the glass bottle. _Fucking witches._ "Okay. Nicole Kidman was hot. She was _really_ freaking hot. But the rest of... that? Like what the fuck was it? Seriously."

Sam gifted him with yet another rare smile and ducked his head shyly. "I don't know, Dean. Guess it's just not your style...noticed you choking up there in the end though."

Dean looked at Sam indignantly."Well... wait why were you looking at _me?_ Aren't you supposed to be watching the movie?"

"I'm a multitasker."

Dean shrugged it off. "It was sad, okay? It was a big over-the-top _gay_ musical and then it turned sad."

Sam smiled wider, enough so that his dimples showed and his eyes softened. Dean didn't begrudge the teasing when it made his brother light up like that. Of course he had to protest for show. "Bitch."

"Jerk." Sam bit into his turkey wrap. "Thanks for taking me, Dean."

"Ah. Don't mention it." His eyes strayed to the blonde waitress and her form-hugging orange shorts. "For _my_ birthday though we're going to see something awesome. Like _Lord of the Rings_. It should be out by then. Dude, its going to rock. That teaser trailer, man...Sam?"

Sam's expression had shifted as if a zephyr had blown a cloud across the sun.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Hey, Snuffleupagus. What's wrong? Upset that they might butcher your favorite book?"

Sam snapped himself back into the moment. "Huh? No. The preview looks pretty good."

"Then why are you moping?"

"I'm not moping."

"That..." Dean said, pointing a fry at Sam's visage, "is a mopey face. Classic Sam Winchester Mopey Face. It says my name is Sam and I have so much angst it oozes from my puppy dog eyes."

"It says I have a brother who won't stop talking."

Dean shifted on his stool and winced with a sharp hiss, placing a hand over his side.

Sam started toward him "Hey man...you okay?"

"Yeah." Dean grimaced, he was slow to catch his breath though. "I'm fine. Just every now and again if I twist the wrong way...the ribs are pissing me off, Sammy. I mean the lip isn't noticeable and the ankle is better, but the ribs are really cramping my style."

"Yeah," Sam's expression was all soft concern. "It seems would be difficult for a lot of things."

"Yeah for the important things. I can't thrust. I can't have any weight on top of me either." Dean looked miserable. "I can't even take care of things myself because it hurts to-"

"Dean! TMI."

"What? I figured you'd be pretty used to taking care of things yourself."

Sam flushed.

Dean pushed himself off of the table and began to limp stiffly in the direction of the bathroom. "Gotta take a leak." Maybe his ankle wasn't as healed as he'd thought, after walking on it all day it was hurting him again. Once he rounded the corner, he pulled one of the waitresses aside. "Hey honey," he smiled and ducked his head conspiratorially, careful to keep his eyes locked on hers.

She responded to his looks immediately, leaning close.

"My brother over there...it's his eighteenth birthday. Think you girls can make it memorable?" He pulled a wad of cash out of his jeans and handed it to her. "I'm a good tipper...generous." He said flirtatiously, eyes roving her figure.

"Oh, I'm sure you are." She brushed his arm with her shoulder. "Know how to lavish a girl with attention, huh?"

"Yeah I'm real good at that," he licked his lip and bit it, ducking his head again. God why was he making promises that his body could not keep right now? "Thanks sweetheart, take care of my boy."

He headed to the bathroom to get rid of the beer he'd been steadily consuming all day.

When he emerged four of the girls had gathered around Sam, including one who had her hands on both of his broad shoulders. He looked mortified by the attention. His eyes pleading and wide, his face flushed. It made him look so very young.

"Sam _may_!" He belted. "You devil you."

"Dean..." Sam looked up. "You suck."

* * *

It was quite late when they'd finally headed back out on the road again. They rode in silence, having exhausted themselves with conversation earlier. "Hey," Dean pulled the car off into a little rest stop on the side of the highway.

Sam looked at him in a silent question.

"Let's get out and stretch our legs."

"We've only been in the car an hour."

"An hour's too long right now." Dean turned Baby off and swung the door open. Sam followed suit, ducked in the back to grab a couple of beers and tossed one to Dean. They both moved around to sit on her black hood. Wordlessly, they looked up at the clear sky and watched the stars.

"Thanks for this, Dean." Sam's tone was gentle. Quiet.

Dean shouldered his brother playfully.

"I mean it." Sam insisted.

"It's your birthday, we had to do something awesome."

"...Do you think Dad even remembered?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Sure he did."

"Yeah," Sam said in a tone that seemed unconvinced. "It's pretty out here."

"Sure is." Dean looked over at his brother and saw that Sam was no longer looking skyward. He had dropped his head to study his beer bottle, toying with the label. He looked very sad. "What's wrong?"

Sam shook his head, but his eyes were glassy.

"Aww, Sam don't get all emo over Dad. You know him."

"It's not Dad."

"Then what is it?"

"Just don't want the day to end."

Dean laughed. "Sammy, tomorrow is another day. This ain't your last one, you know."

There was a pall hanging over his brother now. Platitudes weren't going to fix it. And Dean suddenly knew what the issue was. "You're planning on leavin' aren't you?"

Sam didn't answer at first. The silence was incriminating.

Dean's jaw tightened. He said nothing.

"Don't be mad at me...please."

Dean shrugged, his shoulders suddenly tight. He threw the empty bottle into the bushes and got back into the car. "C'mon. It's late."


	18. Chapter 18

"Your Dad was a coward."

"My Dad was a lot of things, Bobby, but a coward?"

"He'd rather push Sam away than reach out to him. Well that don't strike me as brave."

- **Lucifer Rising**

* * *

John brought the whiskey glass to his lip and took a slow swallow. He set it back down at the kitchen table of the furnished rental house they'd been living in for the past few months while he pieced together what clues he could about the witches he'd been exterminating. Dean's injuries from his tangle with the High Priestess had sidelined him and necessitated a lull in activities as he recovered.

John lazily traced his finger across the map he'd been marking up and then stopped, placed a hand to his temple. His thumb found the slight indentation of skin that indicated a barely visible scar near the outside of his eyebrow. He stroked it absently, tracing its outline, reassured by its familiarity. He settled back into his seat.

The Coven seemed to be part of a larger organization that stretched through the Northeast down to Louisiana. This was somewhat new territory to him. It was going to be a big job. He sighed and looked up.

He was fairly certain the trail he'd picked up several months earlier while they were at Bobby's led nowhere. -Offered a tantalizing glimpse into what happened to Mary and what danger Sam's future might hold and then ended abruptly. After 17 years of nothing and a false blip on the radar, the trail had vanished completely. John buried his pain by setting his sites on the nest of dark magic he'd stumbled upon.

He heard Dean approach from behind him, could tell who it was by the cadence of the loose easy stride. Dean rounded in front of him and took a sip from the whiskey glass. John looked up at his eldest's handsome features. My what a heartbreaker he'd grown into over the last few years. Must have gotten it from Mary because it sure wasn't from his side.

Dean kept the glass and leaned back against the sturdy wooden table top, his jeans brushing the edge of the map as he half rested his weight on the table's smooth surface. John furrowed his brow. "Hey," he gave Dean's thigh a brusque tap with the back of his hand. Dean looked down at John and set the whiskey back on the table. "Get your ass off my workspace...you wanna sit someplace, take a chair."

Dean craned his neck to look back at the map he was partially sitting on. "Sorry sir."

He stood up and stepped away. There was something about his hovering that indicated boredom. Dean had never been good at sitting around. Rest made him restless.

From across the adjoining living room, John saw Sam look up from a book he had his nose buried in, his interest drawn from the voices. His mop of bangs had fallen across his forehead.

John looked back to his eldest. "You want something to do- go pack your things we're leaving in the AM."

Dean didn't conceal his surprise. "Sir? "

"It took me long enough to piece the information together, but we're heading down to New Orleans. There'll be a coven there we need to dismantle. You good to hunt with me? I need back up. This thing stretches across state lines."

Dean's eyes glanced down at the map. "I'm good."

"Good then quit hovering and go pack your stuff." John raised his gaze and glanced to the other room. "You too, Sam," he added to his youngest, whom he knew was listening even if he didn't give any indication of it.

He _had_ been listening, alright. Sam closed his book-his expression somewhere between shock and panic.

John raised an eyebrow. "There a problem?" He kept his tone neutral.

What was with the boys? Sure they were departing about a week before the end of their lease but when had that made a difference?

Sam stood up from the couch, all long legs and broad shoulders. He walked to stand in the archway. Halted uncertainly a few feet from John, looking like a spooked colt.

John felt his heart give a thump. Something was wrong. Sam's energy didn't indicate belligerence...but anxiety. Some heavy weight. Some confession.

"Dad..." he took a breath. "I...can't go with you."

John felt the annoyance rise up. "Not this again, Sam we've had this discussion. I need you in the field. We need you in the field. This is a dangerous hunt. I need the both of you."

Sam's eyebrows knitted together plaintively. "It's it's not like that. I..." he paused as if searching for the correct wording, hesitated again, then dove in with a deep breath and a sudden tumble of words. "Dad ,I've applied to some colleges and I've gotten accepted to Stanford University on a full scholarship ...my first semester starts at the end of the week."

John raised an eyebrow. "You want to run that by me again?" He said calmly.

In John's peripheral vision, Dean looked like a rabbit facing a fox. He'd frozen and was staring at Sam with a stricken expression...but not a surprised one.

"I'm...I'm leaving for college at the end of the week." Sam said.

John snorted. "No you're not. Pack your bags."

Sam didn't move, his chest rose and fell in time with the sudden increase in respiration. His fight or flight was kicking in. Right now it seemed a lot more flight then fight, but John knew that would turn on a dime very soon.

"Dad..." the tone was pleading. "I got a full ride to an ivy league university." Sam gave a forced half smile. "It's a...well...it's a great opportunity and frankly an honor. It's really hard to get one. Ivy league schools are really competitive."

John stood up and crossed his arms. He locked his son with a measuring gaze. "Let me get this straight. You've been applying to colleges without my knowledge?"

Sam's shoulders squared, he tilted his chin up. "Yes, sir."

"And when were you going to tell me this little fact? Were you just going to leave in the middle the night with a note like a coward? Leave me and Dean on our asses?"

Sam dropped his gaze slightly. "I was afraid to tell you." He looked up, eyes pleading again. He took a step forward "Dad, _please_. Please try to understand where I'm coming from. _Please be proud of me_. I'm... I've got a plan for my future. I'll have stability, security."

John tilted his head, arms still crossed-his posture unwelcoming.

"I worked _really_ hard for this...really hard."

John remained impassive. "Yeah, it's unfortunate that you never worked this hard for your family." He said finally.

Sam's expression fell. "That's not fair."

"You know what's not fair? Raising a boy, feeding him, clothing him, training him...training him with a specific set of skills to do a very important, very specialized job... and having him reject that. Having him repeatedly throw that in your face like it's below him. I thought I taught you to take responsibility to help people that need helping. To save people... and here you are running away from that."

Sam's eyes welled up but the tears did not spill over. "Why can't you just be _proud_ for me? Normal parents would be thrilled their kid got good grades and worked hard...and...this is a _good_ thing, Dad. This should be a happy thing..."

The younger brother sought out his sibling's eyes for reassurance and found none. He seemed to grow smaller under Dean's stricken stare.

John turned on him. "You knew about this?"

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers as if fighting a headache but didn't deny it.

Sam started to crumble, the stubborn set of the shoulders hitching a little. " _Please please_ don't make this traumatic. _Please._ "

Begging. He hadn't heard that one in a long time. The boys knew that seldom got them anywhere. "Maybe it should be traumatic to walk out on your family."

"I'm not walking out on you! I'm going to college! Everyone does!"

"I need you on this hunt, Sam. I need you in the field. Dean and I need you. This isn't a two man job. I have no one else to help."

And just like that John watched the pleading need to be understood erupt into a flood of pent up rage. "Maybe you should get _Bobby_ to help...oh wait... we can't do that anymore because you burned that bridge! You burn the bridge with anyone who doesn't agree with everything you say!"

John felt his own ire rise to the challenge. "Watch it." His tone left no room to be misinterpreted.

"I'm going! I wanted your blessing...I didn't want it to go down like this but we can't do anything easy, can we? We have to blindly obey your orders no matter what the consequence. Well, _I_ have my own mind, Dad!"

"Is it so bad to be like me or your brother here?"

Sam looked askance at Dean and didn't answer. A look of hurt flashed through Dean's green eyes.

John's voice sunk an octave, gravelly and serious. "You're putting yourself in danger, Sam. If you leave, I can't protect you."

"What danger? The only danger I see is staying here with you guys. Come on, Dad." Sam tilted his head and gestured to his father. "You come home busted up practically every other week. Dean just got his ribs crushed like two months ago. I'm eighteen and I know how to sew people up with fishing line and dental floss. In fact, I'm pretty damn good at it by now. Does that strike you as messed up... because it should! How in hell am in gonna be in _more_ danger in college?"

John stepped forward and Sam stood his ground. "You've been trying to get away from us and hunting since you were about 12, Sam. I'm sorry but your path in life was set the moment your mom burned on that ceiling."

"Why? I don't even remember her, Dad! Not one damn memory! And I'm supposed to sacrifice my _life_ for her?"

"You watch your damn mouth when you talk about your mother's memory or I'll tear you apart! You ungrateful..." he let the curse die in his throat before it was spoken. This was his own fault for not molding Sam correctly. Some flaw in his parenting. "Have I taught you nothing? Are you willing to let innocent people die because you want to play frat boy with a bunch of over privileged blue bloods?"

"That's not why I'm going! And those people are not my responsibility. It's not my responsibility to save the _world,_ Dad."

"Of course they are. You KNOW about things people don't even dream about. You know they exist and how to stop them and you're willing to let that happen? You're willing to let more families end up like ours? The more people we save...the more times a family doesn't end up torn apart. The more kids don't end up without a mother. Don't end up like you boys."

Sam looked as if he'd been slapped. "Are we really so bad?"

"Don't you twist my words, Sam. Don't you do it. Don't pretend that you don't _know_ that your life would've been completely different if you had a mother."

Sam began to turn away and replied under his breath. "Or a real father. Or a home."

The words raced through John like someone had lit a firecracker. "Don't you dare say that!"

He grabbed the neck of Sam's t-shirt and whirled him around. "I did the best I could you ungrateful-"

"No! Dad!" Dean was trying to step between them. "Let him go!"

Sam for his part wasn't intimidated, instead of shrinking back, John felt him tense and start to surge forward. The little fucker was going to challenge him? Dared to challenge him? Did he not realize that John could put him on his ass in four seconds flat, even if Sam stood several inches taller at the moment? Did he not understand that you don't challenge your father? He tightened his grip on the neck of Sam's navy cotton tee. "I know what you're thinking, Sam Winchester, and don't you dare-"

"Lift a hand to defend myself? Yeah that would just be crazy."

 _"Sammy_." Dean warned, still hovering next to them, like he could do anything to break this up. As if he could be anything but ineffectual in the fucking _war_ that was about to erupt between his father and brother. The Axis and the Allies and Dean was fucking _Switzerland._

"You can't do this anymore, Dad! I'm eighteen!" Sam tried to twist and break away from the hold. John increased his grip and kept Sam rooted to the spot.

John actually laughed. He put his face directly up to Sam's. They were so close that he could feel Sam's panting breaths on his skin. Could see the desperation warring in his son's changeable eyes. Hazel centers bleeding into the blue irises around that. It made them change with the light from blue to hazel to green. Right now they were dilated, thrown wide with panic and the urge to fight.

"I am your father and you are my child." He gave him a shake and Sam's hands instinctively went up to grab John's wrists. "Being eighteen doesn't change that."

"Yeah," Sam ground out, "Unfortunately."

He heard Dean suck a breath in. _"Sam..."_

John blinked, wounded. That physically, deeply hurt. He could feel tears spring into his eyes and that made his anger do a weird turn to direct at himself and then back at Sam, even Dean, anywhere trying to find an outlet.

 _"Unfortunately?"_ John's voice was husky. He pushed Sam back and let go.

Caught off balance, Sam fell back into the wall and Dean caught his arm before he went down completely. Sam steadied himself against his brother. And brought his eyes back up to meet his father's.

John looked away. "I did the best I could, Sam." John hated how his voice sounded broken. There was a long drawn out pause, punctuated only by everyone's breathing. Three men panting in various levels of pain and distress. There was no acknowledgement of his statement. Not one _I didn't mean it_ or _I'm sorry, Dad._ That statement still stood. Sam's expression still read: _Unfortunately, you are my father._

"You know...it was Mary that wanted another child, sometimes..." he bit off his words.

"Sometimes _what_?" Sam prompted, his face a mix of horror and anticipation.

"Sometimes I think maybe we should have been happy with what we had."

That met it's mark. He watched Sam's eyes absolutely flare with pain. His jaw jumped. "How dare you? How could you even... _say_ that to me, Dad?" In his indignant anger, his voice sunk into something _lower._ Something decidedly manly.

"Well, we're being so honest here, Sam..."

"I can't even..." Sam sounded broken. Dean looked surprised and met John's eyes with an eloquent expression of shock.

So that's how it was. Sam could say horrible things but if John told the truth back, then he was the bad guy. Of course. Well Sam wasn't _five_ anymore and needed to learn that words have repercussions.

Sam's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed convulsively. John watched his son fight for control, gain it and steel himself for a response. Part of John was impressed. "So then I guess you won't miss me much when I'm at Stanford."

"You aren't going to Stanford and that's final."

"Oh yeah?" Sam snarled. "Watch me!"

He turned and stalked into his room. John could hear him slamming furniture, pulling clothes out of drawers, shoving them into his duffel.

"If you break anything the deposit comes out of your ass!" John yelled above the noise.

Dean blinked dumbly. "Dad..."

John turned his attention to him. Dean's face was a study in distress, like someone watching a bus accident and being powerless to stop it.

"What Dean?"

 _"Sammy..._ " the name held an edge of utter despair to it. "You don't mean it. Tell him you don't mean it." His boy's expressive green eyes were wide and pleading.

"We both mean it, Dean. That's the problem."

Dean's face crumpled for a moment before he regained his composure. He looked so much younger than his twenty-two years. All fresh faced and high cheekbones and smooth skin and that way of not being able to hide what he was feeling. When he was being dressed down he often stood impassively like a good soldier, but that face betrayed every damned emotion like someone was standing under him with a sign.

He was upset. Severely thrown off balance by his torn loyalties. Severely bothered that the two people he loved most in all the world hated each other at the moment. That the truth had just come out. He could tell that Dean wanted to shove it back in, throw a lid on it. Pretend it had never happened, that it wasn't the truth if they apologized and acted like they were genuinely sorry.

John didn't regret having Sam. Not often. He loved him more than his own life, but he couldn't pretend that his path wouldn't have been _easier_ with just Dean. Couldn't pretend that sometimes, just sometimes he wished that Mary hadn't turned her beautiful eyes on him and asked him for another child. John shook his head to clear it and leaned against the wall with one arm stretched out before him. He felt the coolness of the plaster beneath his palm. He inhaled through his nose, trying to center himself. He let his lids drift shut and pulled focus.

" _Or a real father." S_ am's careless words were going to sting for a long time. Partially due to their truth, even if it wasn't a fair assessment.

Sam walked out wearing a half-zipped grey hooded sweatshirt. The straps of his duffel bag and grimy back pack were both clutched in one hand. The sum total of everything Sam Winchester owned contained within.

John opened his eyes and moved to stand in front of his youngest. A safe enough distance away not to spook him. "Son, put the bags down." It was calm, almost gentle.

"I'm leaving." Sam's nostrils flared. He stood with his legs shoulder length apart, his shoulders squared. Solid. Stable.

"We need to talk."

"Oh, I think we've done enough talking for one night."

 **tbc...**

 **I had to split this up. It's going to be a long fight. I'm hoping to have the next chapter done quicker than usual. Love the feedback guys! Keep the hell hounds off me and keep reviewing!**


	19. Chapter 19

_John Winchester_ : "Yeah. _You_ left! Your brother and me, we needed you. _You walked away, Sam, you walked away_!"  
 _Dean Winchester_ : Stop it, both of you!  
 _Sam Winchester_ : [ _increasingly belligerent_ ] You're the one who said don't come back, Dad. You were the one who closed that door, not me! You were just pissed off you couldn't control me anymore!

 **Dead Man's Blood**

* * *

John looked at Sam's defensive posture and softened. He put his hands in the pockets of his blue jeans, faded and worn and fit for his work and turned his body ever so slightly away from Sam so that they weren't squaring off. He gave his son just a bit of his shoulder and let his slightly turned down gaze convey the olive branch he was willing to offer. "No I mean really talk. Let's just talk, Sam."

He heard Sam let out a long breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding but he made no other move. There was a drawn out pause and finally Sam said, "What do you want to talk about?"

John saw his son's grip loosen on the overstuffed duffel bag.

John raised an eyebrow. "I need you to know that I would like for you to go to college."

Sam looked shaken. " _What?"_

"If circumstances were different, I would love it."

Sam's guard came back up. "Well circumstances aren't going to change any time soon, unless I change them. Which is what I'm doing."

"You're smart. You're resourceful. You're intuitive. You could be the best hunter out of any one of us."

"I don't want to be one, Dad. Why can't I get that through to you?"

"I know you don't want to be. I get that." John kept his tone gentle. "It's a hard life. I get that. I do."

Sam bit his lower lip.

"Dean and me. We need you. All we have left is this little family, Sam. And you are a part of it. And we have our fights and our differences and our pain, but you know, we have been through a lot of stress and it has never broken us apart."

Sam set the duffel down under the pretense of its weight and John sensed the smallest sliver of opportunity begin to glimmer in the shadows.

"I don't want it to end this way. With you mad at me." Sam looked to his brother. Dean was standing near the kitchen table, trying to look casual and failing miserably. "With Dean mad at me."

Dean raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips a little.

Sam looked back at his father. "I have to do this."

"Why?" John prompted.

"An opportunity like this won't come again. They don't just hand full scholarships out like candy. I have to go and be there by week's end."

John felt his heart give a sudden thump aided by adrenaline. Sam alone. Unwatched, unprotected in California. "We need you on this hunt, Sammy."

"I know and I'm really sorry," Sam's eyebrows knitted together, his shaggy hair making him a dead ringer for a chastised golden retriever.

John licked his suddenly dry lips. Negotiation had never been a John Winchester strong point. It was _his_ way or it was no way. He didn't negotiate with his kids-who should listen simply because he was their father. He had age on them, experience, authority.

And yet, he could feel how precarious this situation really was. It gave him pause. Sam listened to Dean most in the world. If Dean had known about this and hadn't been able to change his brother's mind, what were the chances John could?

"It's a really big step and I'd like your blessing, Dad. "

Dean snorted. "His blessing? What the hell Sam? You been watching too much _Godfather?_ Is Dad Don Corleone?"

"Shut up Dean."

Undeterred, Dean put on his best Brando. "You can't leave the 'family business,' Sammy."

Goddammit, now was not the time to goad his brother. "Dean..." John said warningly.

Dean's mouth snapped shut.

At least Sam's anger was directed at a new target.

"I'm sorry son, I can't do that."

Sam's face turned pleading. "Please? Sir?"

John shook his head. "I can't. "

"You can't or you won't?"

John considered. "Both. "

"Make him an 'offer he can't refuse,' Dad." Dean's attempt to diffuse the situation backfired as Sam rounded on him.

"Shut up! Not everything is a fucking joke!"

Dean smirked. "Except your face."

"Dean!" John barked.

Too late, Sam was already back on the defensive. "This is why I have to leave!"

"Because of your bother's questionable timing of movie references?" John gave him a half smile, dimples showing through the salt and pepper stubble.

"No. Because we're so damn dysfunctional we can barely-"

"Function?" Dean asked.

Sam gave a huffing laugh but his eyes were brimming.

"Far as I can tell, we function just fine, Sam. We operate as a well-trained unit. We take out monsters together. We have a pretty good track record."

"That's not what I mean. As a _family._ We don't function as a _family_ , we function as a unit. There's a big difference." He threw his arms wide in exasperation.

Dean's eyes hardened. "Oh really? _Good to know I'm not your big brother._ I'll remember that next time we drive out to Wildwood together."

"See? _That._ No one can talk without someone twisting the meaning. Or deflecting with humor. Or breaking into yelling."

"No one?" John asked, tired of biting his tongue. He sensed that the opportunity to convince Sam to stay had passed and he was going to give the kid the truth, Goddammit. He could take _that_ to Stanford with his ungrateful ass. "It seems like the common denominator in this scenario is _you,_ Sam. _You're_ the one who has to keep throwing rocks into the pond. Dean and I get along just fine."

Sam's mouth dropped open slightly. He seemed stunned, although John wasn't certain if it was stunned that his father had said such a thing to him or that his mind was realizing that John's words were nothing but truthful. He recovered quickly. "You get along just fine because you boss him around like a dog on a leash!"

"He _listens_..." John took a step forward. "He _respects_ me."

"Quit talking like I'm not here." Dean's tone was indignant.

"It's called being a good son, Sam. Like I raised you to be."

"Like _you_ raised me to be?" Sam's little unamused snort pissed John off. "My _brother_ raised me."

Deans' eyes lit with surprise at the acknowledgment and then quickly telegraphed his discomfort at his father's presence. Of course _Dean_ would be mindful of his father's feelings, even if Sam refused to grant him the status of personhood.

"Oh, really?" John's tone was challenging. _I'm not hurt, you little bastard._

"Yes, really. When you were gone for weeks who the hell do you think drove me to school and made sure food was on the table? Sure wasn't YOU, Dad."

John's eyes turned dangerous. "Watch it."

Sam turned his chin up defiantly. "Or what?"

"Trust me, you don't want to find out the answer to that, smart ass."

Sam didn't look the slightest bit intimidated. His respiration had quickened but that was the only sign he'd even heard his father. John did not know where Sam got his will from. Certainly Dean could be stubborn, no doubt. Dean's ass had been tanned by his Daddy's belt for the same damn infraction multiple times... but Sam... Sam's will was like its own force. Sam's was underscored by some righteous anger. Some dead certainty that he was RIGHT. And he would make his will heard. It started out quiet but picked up steam like a goddamn freight train. John knew he'd just thrown coal into the steam engine.

"I guess I won't find out because I'm leaving. " Sam reached down and grabbed the duffel.

John stepped forward, summoning all the authority he had. "Put the bag down."

Sam wrinkled his nose. "No."

"I said put he goddamn bag down, now."

"And I said no." He stepped forward into his father's personal space. "You can't control me anymore, Dad."

Before John had a chance to launch himself at his insolent son, a voice broke through the building rage. Something in the tone stopped them both.

"Sammy..." Dean's voice. His expression was soft and pleading and so was his tone. "Stay."

John read the eloquence behind the green eyes. They telegraphed what Dean so tactfully left unspoken... _Don't leave me behind. Don't leave me alone...with Dad._

Sam met his brother's eyes and the rage there flickered, guttered, almost went out. "I can't."

Dean nodded, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he ran it through his shortly cropped hair. He ducked his head; when he looked back up his features had become impassive.

John filled the pregnant pause."I'm gonna tell you what's gonna happen, Sam." Dean shifted to his right and he could smell his son's aftershave waft through the humid air. It was a strange juxtaposition to the whiskey and gun powder of John's own jacket. "You're going to walk out that door and go to your ivy league school. And you'll take your classes and fake that you fit in. You'll be happy. Maybe you'll meet a nice girl." He hesitated, uncertain if he wanted to continue the thought.

"Sounds terrible," Sam smirked.

That gave John the impetus to hit him with the truth that he would be remiss to not share. "And then one day...it will come crashing down on you. One day you'll come back from your white collar 9-5 and find her butchered. Or maybe it comes after you. And you're soft from not hunting. All those skills I've taught you gone. And Dean and I won't be there to help you."

"Jesus, Dad! You need help. Psychological help." Sam retorted, but John caught the very real flicker of fear deep in the changeable eyes.

"I've told you again and again. We can't have friends and relationships outside of this job-they will be pawns used against you. It's like putting a target on someone's back."

"Well guess what? I'll be clear across the country. I won't be IN this job."

John gestured to himself and Dean. "But _we_ will."

For a moment Sam's bravado faltered. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you and your loved ones will be a target. The Supernatural has marked this family, son. Whether you like that or not." John pointed a finger at Sam's chest. "And that is the _truth."_ He could feel the passion boiling behind his own words. Every paternal instinct he had was shouting: _Make him listen!_

"You know," Sam said holding the bag firmly. He gripped the strap of that duffel like it was a symbol of his freedom, his fingers white and bloodless with the force of his determination. "I think I'll take my chances at happiness."

"It will be taken away!"

" _Maybe._ Maybe after _years,_ Dad!" His voice held passionate fury. "I'd rather have a shot of being happy and maybe losing that rather than a lifetime of being miserable. Christ, you could lose anything at anytime. Normal families lose loved one to cancer and car accidents. They don't isolate themselves out of fear of what might happen! You can't live like that!"

John met him with equal fervor. "You say that now... You say that _now_ but never having had something is not the same thing as having it and then having it taken from you, Sam!" John couldn't stand the hitch of pain he heard in his own voice. He felt the old familiar heartbreak began to bloom under his sternum.

"Maybe I have to find that out for myself."

"I'm trying to save you that experience!"

Sam ran his free hand through his shaggy brown bangs and shook his head. "God, Dad! Mom died seventeen and a half years ago! Maybe it's time to let it go!"

Sam had just flipped the switch to release his father's rage.

John grabbed Sam by his hoodie and drove him back several steps until he slammed him into the wall. The duffel fell out of his grip, forgotten. He slammed him again. The back of Sam's head hit against the drywall with a satisfying crack. This time Sam's own hands came up to grab John's collar back. He pushed against his father using the wall to brace his foot off of and his height as leverage. John was genuinely surprised as Sam gained purchase.

In a flash, Dean was trying to get between them. His reaction was so quick that John realized he must have been prepared to spring. "Knock it off!" His eldest had his back to Sam and was trying to pry John's hands loose from the hoodie. "Dad. Leave him alone! Come on!"

They stayed in the grapple.

"She's gone Dad!" Sam yelled. "And no matter what you hunt. No matter how many things you kill, she's not coming back!"

John slammed him again.

"Dad!" Dean's voice was desperate. "Let him go. You're going to hurt him."

John barely heard him through the buzz of adrenaline. He was certain Sam was similarly locked into combat mode. Truth be told, part of him wanted to hurt Sam. Wanted to direct the utter pain he felt at some target besides himself. Wanted to put the smart ass back in his place.

"What do you care about me, Dad? This isn't about keeping me safe! This about your own selfish, _pathetic_ need for revenge and control!" Sam was yelling in his face now, still latched onto his jacket, the muscles in his neck corded and straining as he resisted John's hold.

Dean was still trying to pry John off of his little brother, grabbing desperately at his father's wrists. "Stop!" he yelled. "Both of you!"

John wasn't actually certain what he would have done to Sam if he didn't have Dean joining the grapple. He'd never had the urge to actually hurt one of his boys before. "Sam, shut your goddamn mouth." His voice was a growl, with all the threat of an ex-marine and a hunter behind it.

"You just told me that you didn't even want me!"

"Oh now who's twisting words? Just because you buy a dog against your better judgment and it shits in your shoes that doesn't mean you don't love the damn dog, Sam. Or that you toss it out into the street."

Dean's breath was on his cheek. "Can we stop with the dog analogies already!"

Dean changed his tactic and grabbed John from behind. Dean's young strength tugging, combined with Sam's push, caused him to lose ground and fall back a few steps. Sam used the moment to break the hold he had on his hoodie. His youngest son moved away from the wall and stopped a few feet away panting, chest heaving. He rubbed the back of his head and winced as he moved his shoulder.

Dean was behind him. A solid weight braced against John's back, pinning his arms to his side in a hold resembling a bear hug. He could have ducked and flipped his eldest over his shoulder in a throw if he wanted, but instead he just tried to shrug him off. "Dean let me go."

"Not on your life." Dean said into his ear. "Calm down, Dad. You're going to hurt him. You're going to _really_ hurt him." His son's words caused the adrenaline to subside a little.

Sam had grabbed his duffel bag and back pack again. "I can't believe this is the reaction you have to me getting a full scholarship to fucking Stanford!" His face twisted. "If I told you I sold my body for cash you'd react better, I swear!"

"Sam," John replied as Dean finally released him. "If you walk out that door, don't you ever come back! Not for anything!"

That startled Sam. Visibly startled him. _"What?"_ His voice went breathless.

"You heard me." John's voice was brutal. "If you leave now-leave your brother and me on this hunt with no back up, we're done." He felt himself pulling away from his own emotions. He wanted to cry but he couldn't give Sam the satisfaction of seeing him hurt. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "If you chose this path over family, don't you dare come back."

Sam shrank away. "I..." he broke off with a half sob. "I... _you can't do this, Dad._ " He looked all of twelve, scared and alone and unsure.

"I can and I will."

His son stood quietly and his mouth drew into a straight determined line, his lower lip was trembling violently. John steeled himself against it. Buried the impulse to go hold him. To comfort him. To absolve him of his betrayal. Sam had pushed his boundaries to the limit. This was John's line. If he crossed it, there was no coming back.

A tear broke loose and coursed down Sam's cheek. And then another. "Dad..." The name was both an appeal and a question. John was glad that Dean was behind him so he didn't have to see his expression.

John remained impassive. "You make your choice, Sam."

Sam wiped his nose with the sleeve of his grey hoodie. He turned without another word and headed for the door. His hand was on the door knob when he looked back over his shoulder. John saw his face lit gently as if from candle glow with the light from the streetlamp. He was handsome with his boyish features, his face all soft planes, the cleft in his chin shadowed deeper along the masculine jawline. His shoulders were broad already, his eyes strong, and John caught a brief glimpse of the man he'd grow into given a few years and a lot of mileage. For now there was just the boy he loved. His Sammy.

"Goodbye, Dad." His gaze locked on a point behind John's and he bobbed his chin. "Dean."

Sam slammed the door behind him and John heard his booted footsteps on the stairs. He turned away and closed his eyes, losing his battle with tears. Dean was out the door after his brother before they even had a chance to mix their dampness with the salt and pepper of his beard.


	20. Chapter 20

"You are a better man than your daddy ever was. So you do both of us a favor. Don't be him."

- _Bobby Singer, Lucifer Rising_

* * *

Sam!" Dean's steps echoed off the wooden stairs of the little yellow and white house as he dashed down them after his brother. The air was moist, humid although not hot. Misting like being caught in the periphery of a waterfall.

"Sammy!" He called after the figure retreating down the street. "Sam, wait!"

Sam halted and turned around to face his brother. Dean slid to a stop, confusion in his eyes. He had gone after his brother on instinct and now that he had his attention, he had no clue what there was to say. What he _wanted_ to say.

Sam's red backpack was slung over one shoulder of his charcoal grey hoodie. His duffel balanced in the other hand.

They stood facing each other in the dim light of the street lamp. Dean offered a pathetic smile. "Well, that went better than I expected."

Sam huffed through his nose in disbelief. "How is that?"

"Well," Dean said. "You're still alive, I count that as a win." He tried to make it jovial but his voice sounded hollow to his own ears.

Sam blinked at him and Dean saw the dampness slowly beading on the fibers of his cotton sweatshirt. His brother's mess of bangs plastered to his forehead with the wetness. A drop of moisture rolled down the curving slope of Sam's nose.

The smell of damp pavement filled Dean's senses. "Hey," Dean reached into the back pocket of his jeans. He loved this pair. They were faded bootcut denim, and besides being comfortable, he knew from numerous compliments- they hugged him in the right places to draw attention.

Dean fished out a fold of bills and extended his hand out to Sam. "Here."

Sam hesitated. "No, thanks."

"Sammy, take it." He gestured at him again.

"I'm fine. I've got a little saved up. Enough for a bus ticket and some meals."

"Sammy," Dean's tone was a bit sterner. He stepped forward a pace, the wad of cash held between his fingertips.

" I don't need whatever money you hustled last night." His brother said stubbornly.

"Come on, don't be an asshole. Take it."

"No." Dean could tell by the stubborn set of his jaw that Sam was done negotiating. "I'm on my own from now on. I'm making it on my own."

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. It was tight enough to cause a dull physical ache near his adam's apple. He put away the money and scrubbed a hand through his damp hair. "Dad..."

"Don't make excuses for him."

Dean felt like his stomach had been shredded. Like his gut had been ripped open. There was some hollow feeling there that hadn't existed before. That he didn't have even an hour ago.

"No matter what you say to me, I'm not staying."

"No..course not." Dean couldn't bring his eyes up to meet his brother's for the span of several seconds. When he was sure he'd mastered his voice he spoke. "So you're just gonna leave?"

"Yeah. I am."

"Oh."

Something in the defeated tone seemed to stop Sam. He looked at his brother and his brows knit together. "I have to."

Dean snorted and ducked his head, chin tilted sideways. He looked up through his lashes. "Not really."

"I want to."

There was no answer to that. Nothing Dean could come back with as a rebuttal. Sam wanted to go. Nothing he could say would make him stay. "Couldn't have just kept your mouth shut with Dad, huh?"

Sam's face hardened. There was the defiant tilt of the chin. "No, Dean, I couldn't have."

Dean put his hands in his pockets. "Things okay with us?"

Several expressions chased across his brother's boyish features and Dean saw something warring in Sam's eyes. "You staying with Dad?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "He's my father. He needs me. Yeah, I am."

"Don't you let him get you hurt."

Dean rolled his eyes, a scoffing smile tugged at the corner of his lip.

"I mean it. There's smart ways to hunt. Like Bobby. He doesn't fly in half-cocked."

"I'm a hunter, Sam. Getting hurt is part of the game, you know? 'Course you do-that's why you're leavin'."

Sam's eloquent silence told Dean that wasn't the only reason. Not the only reason by far. He knew it was the fights and the dysfunction and the beautiful messiness of the whole twisted Winchester relationship that was to blame every bit as much as the job.

"Don't let him hurt you."

"Only one hurtin' me right now is you, Sam."

Sam's eyes welled up with tears and his lip curled up like the statement wounded him. Dean hoped it did a little. He wanted someone else to feel this. He needed Sam to feel the repercussions of what he'd done. _"Dean..."_

"Yeah, Bitch?"

Sam laughed wetly. "I..."

"If you're not going to tell me how awesome I am then I don't wanna hear it."

"You're kind of awesome sometimes. When you're not being a jerk."

Dean smirked playfully. "So not that often, huh?"

"No." Sam shook his head. "Not that often at all..." There was a heavy pause. "I'll call you."

Dean felt his heart drop. A call. After 18 years of his brother living in his hip pocket the best he could hope for was a call. Life sucked.

"S'mmy," he said heavily and suddenly Sam dropped the duffel and threw his arms around Dean's shoulders.

Dean squashed him back, his arms around Sam like a lifeline. The embrace was so tight that it hurt. _Physically_ hurt. Crushing each other with the weight of emotions without release...of thoughts unspoken.

"Sam..." Dean breathed, a tear breaking loose and coursing down his cheek and into his brother's hair as he pressed his face against Sam's warmth. Dean grabbed the sides of Sam's hoodie, clinging to him to stay upright on suddenly weak knees. He gathered himself and seized the opportunity to slip the wad of cash into Sam's pocket. He would be none the wiser of his older brother's intervention until he found the money several states away.

Sam squeezed again and let go. They pulled away. Sam's face was tight. "I gotta go."

"Okay." Dean's voice was scratchy. "Take care of yourself. Don't go knocking up any sorority chicks."

Sam waived dismissively as he started to turn. "Yes. That's a likely scenario."

"I'm still mad at you for walking out on your family." Dean couldn't help but say it. Let Sam know that he wasn't offering absolution.

Sam turned to him again, his expression calm. An image of Sam standing in a rain long ago with a mutt cradled in his arms stared back at him from his brother's face.

He was just as he'd been then. The essence was the same, somehow not changed at all by the years and the mileage and the challenges.

The features now belonged to a young man, but that expression was still stubborn and determined and angry and sad and compassionate and... Sam.

Sam... determined to do what he thought was right and damn the consequences.

That fucking dog, clutched in Sam's arms, still emblazoned in Dean's mind. That turning point in Sam's trust.

Dean had played a part in that. He'd taken that mutt out of his brother's embrace and thrown it to a fate that he couldn't lie to himself about. He'd done that. He thought he'd been doing the right thing at the time. But no.

 _Why?_ Why was his mind tormenting him with a memory almost a decade old? Shouldn't memories be full of action and noise and momentous occasions, like setting fireworks off in a deserted field, or jumping off of roofs pretending to fly? Should they be nothing more than an image...nothing more than that one haunting image of Sammy in the rain?

He couldn't do that to Sam again. Couldn't break his heart by denying him what he wanted, what he thought was right. So he repressed the urge to beg. To cajole. To fight. To physically pull Sam back inside. He put away his verbal arsenal of guilt and accusations and threats and _don'tleaveme!don'tleaveme!don'tleaveme!_ that played through his mind.

Instead, he gave his brother a tilt of his chin. "I'll catch you on the flip side, Sammy."

Sam nodded, turned his back and walked away.

 **I know these updates have been coming hard and fast this week. Stick with me, we are just a few chapters from the end. As always, reviews are gold!**


	21. Chapter 21

Dean watched Sam's form fade into the dark mist. It took everything he had to refrain from running after him. To let him go. He _had_ to let him go. Had to let him leave.

He felt hollow.

He stood in the middle of the street like a jilted lover and scrubbed his hand over his face to rid himself of the tears that spilled down his cheeks in weary paths. Dean didn't have any sense of how long he'd stood there, immobile, until a car came through, startling him with the intensity of its headlights. He stepped to the side, his boots sinking into the soft grass of the next door neighbor's lawn.

He stood in the same spot for another several minutes until he managed to pull the frayed pieces of his psyche together. The last thing he wanted to do was face his father, but he'd left the keys to the Impala inside his leather jacket in his urgency to follow Sam. The leather jacket that was hanging in the hallway.

Dean drew a breath and walked back inside, closing the door with a soft click.

His father was sitting back at the table hunched over the map. There was a rounded tension to his shoulders that hadn't been there before.  
He didn't look up when the door shut. "Is your shit packed? We are still leaving in the AM. "

Dean paused. He wanted to protest. What if Sam changed his mind? What if he came back and they were gone and he didn't know where they'd left for? It was against every instinct he had to not wait for Sammy. He left all his fears unspoken and answered with a soft, "No sir."

John pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. He had a bottle of Jack Daniels resting on the kitchen counter. He moved over to pour a glass, finally turned around to look at his eldest. He held out the glass to Dean. "Want a drink?"

 _Want a drink?_ He wanted the whole fucking bottle. He wanted to drink himself into a blackout. He wanted to open the Impala up on a back road somewhere until she shuddered underneath him like a straining racehorse. He wanted to bury himself in a woman and thrust until he couldn't think of anything else but the rhythm of their bodies.

He brought himself back to present and walked over to take the glass his father was offering. "Thanks."

John poured himself a glass and peered into the amber liquid like there were answers lingering there. "You leaving too?" He asked gruffly.

Dean stopped, the cool glass resting against his lower lip. He pulled it back with wide eyes. "What?"

" You gonna take a page from your bother's book and take off?"

He couldn't believe his dad was seriously asking him that question. "No."

"Why not?"

Dean stood stunned, recovered himself. "I'm with you, Dad. You need me, I'm not walking away." A grin tugged at the corner of his lip. "Besides, where would I go? It's not exactly like I have Harvard foaming at the mouth over my GED."

John winced visibly before he took a swallow of whiskey. "You're not my dog Dean. You have your own mind. You can make your own choices."

Dean smirked. "Well Sam was a Golden Retriever that shit in your shoes, so I guess I can be your guard dog."

John made an amused sound in the back of his throat. "I'm afraid he took that analogy wrong."

"You _think?"_

"He takes everything wrong that comes from my mouth."

Dean couldn't argue. He brought his glass back up to his lips and took a swallow, felt the burn crawl down his esophagus. His hand was shaking, he noted with dismay.

He closed his eyes against a wave of emotion and breathed through his nose. He had to calm down, find his center. Couldn't fall apart like a bitch in front of his father. Even though that was all he wanted to do right now. Cry or explode or kill something. He felt the left side of his face twitch until he stilled it.

When he opened his eyes, his father was scrutinizing him. He said nothing. Then "This coven is big."

"I'm so sick of witches." Dean lamented. "I hated 'em before and I _really_ hate 'em now."

Oh god he wanted to fall apart. How was his father not bleeding over Sammy?

John's brows raised and the lines around his mouth softened. "You're a good kid, Dean."

Dean couldn't stand to hear it. He choked down another swallow of whiskey and turned his head. _"Don't."_

"Don't what?"

"Just don't. Please." He drained the glass and set it down on the table with a clink against the wood and stared at it for a moment, the way the light refracted off of the thick bottom catching his attention. Anything to not look at his father. "Did you mean that about Sam?"

"Mean what?"

"When you told him not to come back."

John's jaw tightened. "Sam chose to leave this family."

Dean closed his eyes, his hands were clenched into fists on the table. He leaned his weight into them, his head down. He could feel the fine tremble in his biceps as they supported his upper body.

"Your relationship with your brother is your business. Mine is done."

"Don't say that."

"You don't give the orders here, Dean."

Dean swallowed hard, still not looking up. Fighting the tears that wanted to leak out the corners of his closed eye lids. "Yes sir," he said tightly. "Where are we headed next?"

"New Orleans."

A million miles from California. "Oh good. Hoodoo central." He still hadn't opened his eyes.

He felt like the fucking lump in his throat was going to suffocate him. "You know," he said, trying to fill up the silence "The witch that we dealt with a few months ago spewed all over my favorite shirt. So freaking gross. I had to burn it."

He could sense, could _hear_ his father drawing closer.

He tensed. _Oh god. Don't touch me. Don't touch me._

John's hand was on his shoulder, pulling him up and turning him around. He felt the amulet Sam had given him swing with the motion.

"Look at me, son."

Dean opened his eyes and looked at John. His father raised a dark eyebrow. "You going to be a man about this or are you going to fall apart?" His voice was not unkind.

Dean clenched his jaw and didn't say anything.

He tried to evade the touch by backing up slightly. John moved with him, encroaching on his space.

"I'm going to go get wasted," Dean replied.

John snorted. "We're leaving in about 7 hours. That certainly cuts in on your time to be wasted."

"Can't we just take a _day_ , Dad?"

John's expression turned hard. "No. We've wasted enough time on Sam."

 _"Wasted_? He's my brother. He's _your_ son!"

"He's not going to get in the way of saving people. We waste time, more people get hurt. You know that."

Dean turned with a vicious sweep of his arm and knocked the whiskey glass, the markers and the map off of the table. They clattered to the ground with a satisfying cacophony. The glass shattered.

John watched Dean impassively. "That answers my question. Fall apart. Now you get to clean that mess up before you pack."

Dean leaned against the table again, breathing heavily. "Am I still a good kid, huh?" He heard the challenge in his own voice.

John crossed his arms and cocked his head appraisingly. "Yes, you are."

Dean snorted, shook his head.

John grabbed his bicep and Dean tensed, putting his arm up to shield himself from a blow that never came. Instead his Dad whirled him around and swept him into a rough embrace, his big hand pushing Dean's head against his neck. Dean leaned into him, wrapping his arms around John's bulk and clinging to his father: solid and calm and true like he always was. The only thing he had left.

Dean's face twisted and he briefly lost his battle with his emotions, his breaths hitching on a few sobs.

John thumped his back. "I know, son." He held him a second longer, gave him a squeeze that said: _I know you're hurting._ Then John pushed him away, holding him at arm's length, both of his hands on Dean's upper arms. The grip hurt a little. There was an intensity to his gaze that made Dean squirm inwardly. He stood pliable at the other end of his father's attentions, head cocked, eyes lowered guiltily.

"Now get it together." His Dad's voice was firm. "You got that? Clean up this mess, and then get your ass in that room and pack your stuff."

"Yes, sir." Dean felt dazed. Follow orders. He knew how to do that. That made sense in his world gone sideways.

He bent to pick up the map and gather the markers. It made him remember the days of borrowing Dad's supplies to scrawl cartoons of women with enormous breasts in the margins of Sam's school notebooks.

He put the markers on the table, knelt back down and crunched his knee into a shard of glass on the floor. He hissed and stood up, brushing at his injured leg.

"That's what you get for breaking things, Dean... You okay?"

"I'm fine." Dean said mechanically, grabbing the broom near the fridge. He swept up the rest, dumped it in the garbage.

His father was watching him as he limped to the bedroom, closing the door. Dean sat down on the edge of the bed, toed off his boots and pulled off his jeans. His knee only had a small scrape that was barely bleeding. He almost wished it had been deeper so the physical pain could override the emotional. No such luck.

Dean crouched and started to cram his belongings into his duffel bag. Just him and Dad now.

He absently touched the heavy brass of his necklace and sighed. After a moment, he sat heavily on the floor and leaned his back against the edge of the bed, clad in his boxer briefs and t-shirt. He drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, laying his head on his knees.

One thing was certain. He and his father would have that bottle of Jack gone before the morning.


	22. Chapter 22

John stared at the door long after Dean closed it. His eldest was going to take this hard. _Dammit, Sam._

He poured himself another few fingers of whiskey and sat back at the table, stretching his long legs out before him. His boot crunched against a piece of glass that Dean had missed. Normally he would have made him come back out and clean up his mess correctly. Tonight he just didn't have the heart.

 _You gonna take this like a man or fall apart?_

John Winchester could take this like a man. He always could. Well, except when he'd lost Mary. He'd come apart at the seams then. For months. But Sam? Losing Sam was a pale echo in comparison. One he'd known was coming.. _.hoped_ wouldn't come- but deep down had known would happen for the last year now. Although tonight had come as a shock, a complete and total sideswipe.

He thought that Sam's tractability over the past few months had been a sign of his evolving maturity, but now he understood-Sam was biding his time until he could get the hell out. It was obvious in retrospect. How could he not have known? That Dean knew and kept it a secret surprised him most. Made him a little angry, actually. But that was his sons through and through.

Like the time Sam had tried to hide Dean's occasional marijuana use from their dad. Even tried to take the blame himself. Like it was _his_ nickel bag John had found under the pillow. As if his dad would have been stupid enough to think his 12-year old honor student was to blame and not his experimental 16-year old drop out. Dean must have been fucking stoned when he hid the bag...seriously, _under the pillow_? The memory almost made him laugh now, although at the time he'd been furious. Dean had gotten the belt that night.

John absently began to run his finger along the map he'd been worrying over the entire afternoon. His thumb traced a lazy circle through Montana while his eyes scanned over to California. He looked away and dug the heel of one hand into his forehead. He had a headache. What was done was done. The decision had been made, the ultimatums doled out and Sam was gone. John had his emotional armor on, his tried and true coping mechanisms in place and his anger to fuel him. He'd be fine without Sam.

But Dean. John had hoped his eldest wouldn't take this so hard. But all he needed was one _glimpse_ of Dean leaning against that table, his shoulders tense, his head ducked, his jaw trembling and he knew everything that his son was unable to tell him with words. _I'm going to fall apart, Dad._

He couldn't bring himself to be angry with his eldest at that moment. Even with all the emotional turbulence in the air, even though he still wanted to pound Sam into the wall, even though Dean had thrown a fit and broken shit. _This_ kid had stayed. _This_ kid was loyal. This kid loved him. _Loved him._ He teared up.

He didn't deserve Dean sometimes. _Did not_. John lifted the glass to his lips. God, he'd never bargained getting into this parenthood thing without Mary. Being a single father hadn't even been on his imagined horizon. She was supposed to know what to do in times like this. What wisdom to dole out, what comfort to give.

 _Mom died seventeen and a half years ago. Maybe it's time to let it go._ God, Sam knew just what to say to set him off. More than that-to really hurt him. If he were honest with himself, what he could have done to Sam right then scared him a little. Without Dean to play referee, it could have spun into something very ugly very fast. Perhaps it was best that Sam had left.

His instinct now was the same as Dean's had originally been-to go out and drink himself into a better mood or a coma. Whichever came first. The only trouble is he had planned on leaving in the morning and he could not leave Dean alone right now. Even if they spent the rest of the night in their separate quarters, which was likely to happen, Dean would have the comfort of _knowing_ his father was there. Just as he would have the comfort of knowing Dean was there behind that door. Not gone at all. Just behind that little piece of wood humans like to pretend gives them privacy. Like you couldn't hear sobbing or moans or panting behind a closed door. Like he couldn't _feel_ Dean's pain on the other side of that wall, even if his son was dead quiet right now.

 _Dean. Poor Dean._ Things had been so much easier in a way when the boys were little. When he could march into that room and hold Dean pressed against his chest and rock him. When there wasn't all the intricacies of manhood to dance around. When he could have beat Sam's ass and sent him to bed until his attitude improved. That was a long time gone now.

Now the three of them had their own autonomy and the Winchester men all had to deal with the repercussions of their own decisions. _God help the world._

John gritted his teeth and ground the shard of glass under his boot into a powder. He waited a good long time, stewing over his map until he couldn't stand the feeling of inaction anymore.

He knocked on the bedroom door. "Dean?"

There was a long pause. "It's unlocked."

John opened the door slowly and poked his head in.

Dean sat on the floor in his t-shirt and underwear, his back leaning up against the edge of the bed. He looked oh so very young. Much younger than his 22 years. "How's the knee, son? That sounded like a hell of a crunch when you kneeled on the glass."

Dean absently traced a hand over the bloody cut just under his kneecap. "It's fine."

John frowned. "You sure?"

" Yeah, Dad, I'm sure." Dean's voice was flat.

"Why are you on the floor?"

His son shrugged. "Don't know. I was packing my duffel and down here anyway, seems like as good spot as any." He ran one hand through his shortly cropped hair and rested the other clenched in a fist on his bare thigh. He looked up, his green eyes wide and earnest, framed with those long dark lashes that John had heard every woman remark on since Dean was a child. _Oh, he's he's going to be a heartbreaker with those eyes!_

Thus far their comments have been fairly prescient. John knew that as young as Dean was, he had already done his fair share of damage to the fairer sex.

"Is there a rule against sitting on the floor now, sir?"

John studied him quietly. "Of course not."

He saw his son shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny. Dean dropped his eyes to the hand fisted on his thigh. He loosened his grip and John saw the glint of brass and black leather. He noticed then that Dean's amulet was absent from his neck.

John felt completely ineffectual. He had no clue what to say. His paternal instincts told him to do something. Even his military training told him to take care of his man. He didn't know how.

"Dad," Dean's mouth lifted into a humorless smirk. "You're being kind of creepy."

Deflection. _Of course._ How typically _Dean_.

John shook his head slightly and snorted. John Winchester had never been good at vocalizing his emotions. He was a man of action. It had been one of Mary's main laments about living with him. She wanted to pry, get inside, understand his every thought, motive, action. John didn't understand how to do it. He didn't shut her out intentionally, he just couldn't divulge his every emotion. He covered them, shoved them down, bore them silently. When he woke from a nightmare from his time in the service, shaking and weeping, he couldn't explain to her what he was feeling. He didn't know how to fix what was wrong.

He saw himself reflected in Dean's stoic response. He could _feel_ the pain emanating off of his son from half way across the room, but Dean kept his tone light. His responses glib, only his eyes and closely guarded expression gave his inner turmoil away.

Physical wounds John could tend to efficiently. He'd patched Dean and Sam and himself up more times than he could count. If Dean were nursing a stab wound, John would have been on it in a moment's notice, stanching the bleeding, sewing the wound, holding his kid down and calming his cries with the efficiency of a medic. Yet here Dean was bleeding out before his eyes and he didn't understand the first thing about how to help him. His instinct was to give orders. Something concrete for Dean to follow: _Get off the floor, pack your bags, quit moping._

"I'm creepy? Am I the one lying on the floor in my underwear?"

Dean grimaced. "Okay. Good point." He pulled himself up to his feet. "There? Better now?"

John saw him cross to the bedside table and set the amulet on it. There were marks in his skin where the brass horns have been digging into his palm.

John didn't remember a time when Dean hadn't had that necklace. He'd worn it for for so long that it almost seemed to be a part of him. Years ago he'd caught Dean with a girl in the back of the Impala. His son looked up with horrified fear at John's knock on the glass, buck-ass naked- except for that amulet swinging from his neck as he made a mad scramble for his clothes. John gave the obligatory lecture, but he couldn't come down too hard on the kid. He and Mary had done the same thing in their youth. Hell, there was a chance Dean was _conceived_ in that back of that thing and if that wasn't a creepy fucking thought, he didn't know what was.

John strolled over to the table and picked up the necklace. It swung almost hypnotically from the black leather thong. There was a good weight to it. It had to have been real brass. "Where'd you get this thing? You've had it forever. Bobby give it to you?"

It seemed like some weird esoteric trinket Singer would have found at an antique shop somewhere.

He looked at Dean's expression and blanched. Well that was the wrong fucking question to ask to break the ice.

His son's eyes were lit up with pain.

 _Why'd you ask me that, Dad?_ telegraphed there plain to see. "Sam gave it to me for Christmas." Dean's voice was thick.

John set it down and faced his son. Dean swallowed spastically.

"Okay," John said softly, his voice carrying tones of gravel. "This has to stop."

"Stop what?" Dean croaked.

 _"This."_

Dean's eyes welled. "He just fucking _left,_ like give me a day, Dad!" There was so much pain behind the words that it threw John sideways a bit. He hadn't counted on Dean being this mortally wounded by Sam's departure.

"You're no good to me like this."

A tear spilled and his son wiped it away angrily, his jaw shaking. _"What?"_

John stood nose to nose with him, searching, reading the story on Dean's pale face. "On a hunt. We're going into dangerous territory and I need you focused on this mission. You're distracted. You're going to get hurt. Can you focus for me?"

"Dad..." Dean dropped his gaze.

John grabbed his shoulders and shook him. " _Dean._ Can you do this? Can you man up? I need your head in the game. Can you get your shit together and be my backup? Can I count on you to protect my _life?"_

"You know you can... always." His son replied.

"The mission comes first, you know that. These people, they don't have anyone to protect them but us, son. There's nothing that stands in the way between them and the darkness-"

"...but a Winchester with a bag of rock salt." Dean finished. "I know, Dad. I get it I do." He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. His jaw was still trembling a little.

"Dean, can you do it? Don't tell me you can if you can't. Can you do it?"

"Yes, sir." The answer was quiet, meek.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, sir." Dean snapped back with more enthusiasm.

"Good man." He squeezed Dean's shoulder.

Dean nodded tightly, though John could see his legs trembling a little as if from the cold.

"Excuse me, Dad. I gotta use the toilet." Dean shouldered past and rounded the corner to the bathroom.

Feeling no better about the situation, John went back to the kitchen and poured himself another three fingers of whiskey-downed it much too fast. Jack was meant to be sipped, not drained. It was getting late. They should probably both asleep.

How the hell were they supposed to do that?

He wandered over to Sam's vacant room and looked inside. Empty. Not a trace of his youngest anywhere. It was as if he had never been. John closed his eyes against the wave of pain. Sam was gone to an uncertain future. Belatedly, John wondered what his major even was. What Sam's aspirations were. Wondered what it would be like to have the luxury to be a normal father and boast to co-workers about his son's achievement.

But he didn't allow himself to travel too far down the path of _what for_ and _why_ and _what could be_. It was only _what is and what should never be._ Nothing else. As it stood he'd failed in protecting his son. He'd failed in instilling the correct values in him. He'd failed as a father. John punched the wall, not hard enough to dent anything, just enough to sting his knuckles.

Sam was gone. Dean was in the other room doing god-knows-what and John hadn't the faintest clue how to help. His eldest needed comfort, but he didn't want to show weakness to his father because John had tried to teach him not to. It had been a hard won task. His son covered it well, but Dean's nature was soft. He had been a sensitive child. So sensitive that it would have gotten him killed. John had to teach him to keep it together for the mission. Keep going. Keep forging ahead. Lick his wounds later and in private. Which was surely what he was doing right now. He'd had a similar problem with Sam, except that Sam did not possess Dean's nature of wanting to please his father above all else and the lessons never stuck, it seemed.

In the dead silence of the house, the water running in the bathroom was plain to hear. Below that was something more ominous. Human sounds that John couldn't quite make out. Something that almost sounded like gagging or retching. Maybe a sob. It was hard to tell, and if he were honest with himself, he didn't _want_ to know.

John leaned his head against the woodwork of the doorway and took a breath through his nose. Dean was not going to be okay for a long time. _Dammit Sam. Dammit. We needed you. Dean needs you._

Dean _did_ need him. The realization that part of the reason WHY John didn't have the faintest clue how to tend to Dean's emotional wounds hit him like a physical blow. He didn't know how to help comfort his boy because that was Sam's territory. -Just as comforting Sam had been Dean's role. The boys tended to each other's emotional fallouts while John instinctively retreated somewhere else and let them have their private moments.

Most of the time he didn't even know what they said to each other. A wave of pure guilt roiled in his stomach. His jaw went tight and he tried to swallow through the lump in his throat. He couldn't. He choked a little.

He wasn't even aware of the tears that begun to spill down his cheeks.

The whiskey was making his limbs heavy. He stumbled over and collapsed down onto Sam's empty bed and closed his eyes.

The pillow still smelled like Sam's hair.

When he awoke in the morning, Dean was ready to go and the rest of the Jack Daniel's was gone.


	23. Chapter 23

**Okay, guys, this is it. The last chapter. Breaks my heart to post it. But we've hit the end. Stay tuned for some long ass author's notes at the end.**

Sam Winchester leaned his forehead against the window of the greyhound. The miles rolled by steadily. He squinted and watched the horizon, his destination growing closer, closer. He could feel a thrill of anticipation in the pit of his stomach. It was an unfamiliar feeling. A feeling like the world was opening up to him. Like the life he'd left behind was a nightmare that might evaporate in the daylight.

He'd have choices here and autonomy and a chance at normalcy.

The bus let him off at the station not very far from campus. He pondered calling a cab and figured he could walk it. It might take him an hour but the physical exertion would do him good. He swung his duffel and his old beat up red backpack over one shoulder and set off at a crisp walk. He'd discovered the money that Dean had shoved into his coat pocket somewhere around Nevada and had allowed himself a small smile. He should have known his big brother would find a way to make sure he took the money. It was so utterly characteristic of him, Sam couldn't even be annoyed at the subterfuge.

 _Dean._ Walking away from Dean had been hard. Walking away from his father had been a lot less painful. And walking away from that _life_ had been freeing. As he'd journeyed off into the slightly damp darkness, a bit of weight slipped off his shoulders with each stride. He was free. Set free from dad, free from hunting. His real life could begin. He was his own man. Despite that horrible fall out with his father, in the end, Sam had left feeling elated.

His steps faltered a little as he drew closer to the sprawling campus. It was an endless expanse of green lawn and immaculate buildings, perfect walkways. The bushes perfectly manicured, the structures huge Spanish-influenced golden cream with brick-colored tile shingles. The kind of place he'd barely set foot in. Somehow when he'd gone for his interview it seemed less intimidating than it did now that he was actually going to LIVE here. Live among this splendor-even if he slept in a small dorm room, he was still on _this_ campus. Part of this glory.

It made him feel slightly self conscious. Aware of his beat up sneakers and bootcut jeans, scuffed at the bottom from dragging the ground. His worn in t-shirt and shaggy hair, his slightly insecure way of carrying himself that he'd adapted long ago to try and be invisible, only exacerbated by his height. A slight stoop of his shoulders that said: _Don't notice me. Don't talk to me._

The other people passing by didn't look that way. They walked with a confident ease in their freshly pressed clothes and designer jeans. Heads turned, talking to one another, completely and blissfully oblivious of any danger that might await them. Sam retreated off the pathway to linger under the the comfort of the shade cast by an enormous palm tree and some bushes. He leaned his back against it, feeling a bit more grounded under the darkness. Off of the expanse of cement sidewalk and away from the people milling about.

He stood where he was and pulled out the cell phone in his pocket. Flipped it open. His thumb rested on the speed dial to call Dean. Tell him he'd made it. Hear his brother's voice on the other line. Tell him about all of the pretty girls he could see from his vantage point. Ask him how he was doing.

He hesitated, looked at the screen and noticed the _no service_ message. Sam furrowed his brow. _No service? How?_ And then it sank in like a blow to the gut. Dad had cut Sam off of his service plan. He'd wasted no time doing it either. When he said Sam was on his own, he'd meant it...and this...this was his father's _coup de grace_ -his silent reaffirmation: _Don't you ever come back._

He pulled away from the support of the palm's trunk. He stood stunned for a moment. A little lost. The wind out of his sails for the first time since he'd left. He looked around him at the people passing by. _It was okay_ , he assured himself. It would be okay. It was nothing he couldn't adjust to and typical of his godamned father. Just like with Bobby...no matter how close the bond, napalm the bridge so that there was no crossing back over.

Sam clenched his jaw, more angry than sad. Fine. Then he wouldn't _ever_ try to cross back over.

He'd do this all on his own. He'd be resourceful and clever and work hard and he'd earn a fucking 4.0 at an ivy league institution with no help from anyone and he'd have his own life. He'd have a career and find a girl and allow himself to fall in love and see where else that life led him. It sure wouldn't be dead at thirty from bleeding out or holed up in Bumfuck, South Dakota as a drunken bachelor.

He jammed his worthless cell back into his pocket and gathered his resolve. Sam knew his own strengths and determination was one of them.

Even so, he hesitated before he wandered into this foreign environment of wealth and warmth and temperate weather. Of smiles and _hellos_ and _how are yous?_ Of _hey what's your name? Where are you from? What's your major?_ Of not having to look at every person around him and wonder who would try to kill him. Of not having to flinch away from every human touch...of every act of kindness. Of friends and possibility and intellectual conversation. He felt his heart speed up at the thought of it, a quick timed _thump thump_. A slight flutter in the pit of his stomach. He placed his back against the palm tree again and waited the feeling out.

He felt more nervous at the prospect of talking to people than he did in some creepy cemetery somewhere holding a shotgun and a lighter. Even at his young age, Sam knew how utterly fucked up that was. But he wasn't in a deserted basement somewhere or standing with a rotted corpse, he was here. Now.

He gathered that resolve. That determination that led him here though years of hardwork and months of subterfuge. That stubborn streak that he relied on to keep him sane and grounded. He squared his shoulders, let out a trademark little huff of breath through his nose and gathered his stuff. Sam Winchester stepped out of the shade and into the sun.

 **The Beginning...**

* * *

 **Thanks for sticking with this to the end. If you've followed me this far, please leave a review if you have the chance-even if you're reading this years after posting. They mean so much. I put a lot of my heart and soul into this particular piece. I tried to stick as close as I could to canon, piecing through what characters have said about the various incidents and to not contradict anything established in the show and boy was that harder than you'd think! I even researched what Stanford's campus looked like.  
**

 **I'm a bit of a Kripke Season purist and so that was mainly what I take as Gospel but I tried not to contradict later seasons as well. (Which is the reason I sent then to Wildwood but never let them set foot on the beach).**

 **I wanted to tell Sam's story, but through everyone else's point of view BUT Sam's, until the end, when he has finally taken his agency over his own life.**

 **It was hard to make Sam's ending blowout with John traumatic enough that 3 years later they haven't spoken and that John was STILL afraid to hug Sam nearly 4 years after...when the boys finally find him. Yet the night Sam left for Stanford was also one of his favorite memories in Heaven, so I couldn't eviscerate Sam the way I did Dean. Sam had to be sufficiently empowered and relieved that he was leaving behind such a bad situation.**

 **I also tried very hard to not write anyone as the bad guy, because even John had his story. It's simply 3 men (4 with Bobby) who are trying the best they can with a terrible hand of cards.**

 **So there you have my sentiments at the lofty goals I had for this piece. Thank you so much for all the reviews! They kept me writing. And especially to you who reviewed nearly every chapter...you guys know who you are.**

 **A little tidbit...this entire thing came out of one disjointed image that kept floating into my mind...it was Young Sam clutching a puppy in the rain and looking at me with hurt and determined eyes. It broke my heart and I knew I had to tell his story...and a ridiculous amount of pages later, here we are.**

 **Check out my other stories by clicking on celinenaville. I'm working on another few stories that are Dean and John based, they should be up soon, so go ahead and subscribe if you're interested. I'm posting a little preview of it here...  
**

Now why are we working with a witch again?" Dean looked at his dad from the passenger side of the truck.

John shook his head. "She's not a witch, Dean. She's a psychic. I've worked with her on a lot of cases. She knows her stuff. She isn't a charlatan."

"Didn't you say she comes from a long line of occultists?"

John raised a dark eyebrow. "Yes."

"That's like code for witches."

John snorted. "Well, we need her."

Dean leaned against the passenger window, jiggling his leg. He'd been antsy and on edge ever since Sam had left for Stanford. Things had settled into an uneasy rhythm between the two of them, but Sam's absence lingered over them like the faint smell of sulfur in a closed room. They had hardly spoken of Sam since the night of his departure, as if not giving voice to his absence would make it more bearable. John could tell from Dean's behavior that his brother was never far from his mind. Truth be told, he wasn't far from John Winchester's thoughts either.

TBC...


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